


Let Each Who Is Worthy

by mokuyoubi



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy, Panic! at the Disco, The Academy Is...
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Cheating, M/M, Polyamory, Religious Conflict, band au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-10
Updated: 2013-03-10
Packaged: 2017-12-04 19:54:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 86,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/714466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mokuyoubi/pseuds/mokuyoubi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It was probably just some shitty band, you know?  I mean, how many high school bands ever go anywhere, what are the odds?  But I still can’t help wondering how things might have been different, if I’d joined them.  Like.  That was a bad time for me, and what if I <i>had</i> found a place where I fit in?  Where would I be now?"</p>
<p>Brendon has his religious crisis but never meets Panic! and goes away on his mission after high school.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Let Each Who Is Worthy

_We have been saved for these latter days_  
To build the kingdom in righteous ways  
We hear the words our Prophet declares  
Let each who's worthy go forth and serve 

_We are as the Army of Helaman_  
We have been taught in our youth  
And we will be the Lord's missionaries  
To bring the world his truth  
\- We'll Bring The World His Truth (Mormon hymn) 

 

Brendon isn’t sure what wakes him—the creaking of the bed frame as Joseph rolls in the bunk above, the bone deep pain along the side he’s laying on, or the slow ache spreading up his opposite forearm into his shoulder. His fist is clenched tight, knuckles pressing hard into the mattress, bracing him on his side. He’s worried he’ll fall if he doesn’t keep himself held up, but he’s not sure where he’s afraid he’s going to fall _to_. The bed has rails.

He lays in the dark, unsure if his eyes are open or not, unsure if he is awake or not. Belatedly he unclenches his fist and runs his fingers absently over the crescent moon marks left on his palm. The bedside clock reads 5:08 in bright green and he’s _so tired_ , another fifty minutes of sleep isn’t nearly enough to take it away. 

It’s already unbearably hot and his mouth is so dry it hurts. The glass he keeps on the bedside table is empty when he reaches for it. He rolls onto his back, staring at the bottom of the bed above him and his eyes adjust to the darkness enough that he can make out the room beyond his bed. The walls are a dull grey, broken only by the window on the far wall. Rain slams against the windowpane, slipping through the cracks in the frame, dampening the carpet just beneath. 

Brendon doesn’t really miss home. Summoning the strength to care enough to miss something is really beyond him. But at least at home the house didn’t leak and he didn’t have to boil the water before he drank it. At home his room had posters on the wall, his computer on his desk, his guitar propped against the wall and his books. Here there are no decorative frills, no distractions in the form of televisions, radios or computers, and he only has one book. Only needs one book. 

No one else is awake, so he decides to take advantage of the fact and indulge in a long shower. Usually he gets twenty minutes in the bathroom, at most. He follows the rest of his schedule like clockwork, though. Get up, grab a bottle of water (fresh spring, if they’ve been recently supplied, otherwise taken from the local water source), take meds, brush teeth, shower—and no touching himself, either, because even if the other guys do it, and even if no one else would know, Brendon would, and God would. 

Instead, he listens to the creaking protest of the pipes and lets the lukewarm water pound against his back. He lets his mind wander as it will, until the medicine kicks in. There has been talk, Elder Fields says, of cutting their losses here and moving on. The official rolls for the town listed their congregation at just over 600 members, but on any given Sunday, only around 40 showed. 

It had been easy enough to see what had happened—most of the townspeople were wary of them, looking at the ground as they passed, mumbling responses. Brendon’s predecessors had travelled through the town quickly, taking the people in a whirlwind, baptising mostly the underage, and moved on without bothering to follow-up. At first, their orders had been to re-activate the members, but Brendon was pretty sure that was a lost cause. 

Brendon had thought, when he’d first applied for his mission, that he didn’t really care where he ended up. One place was the same as any other. Living in Brazil for the past eight months has taught him how wrong he was in that thought. 

The first five months in Belo Horizonte weren’t so bad. The mission house was nice and dry, and the food wasn’t phenomenal, but it was decent. Brendon spent most of his days doing relief work. That was good—it kept his body busy and he didn’t have to think. Most days the physical exhaustion was enough to knock him out at night. 

Since coming to Tapauá, though, Brendon has realised he was wrong. This town lives in abject poverty, and he is doing nothing to help. Elder Fields, being the senior companion, does most of the proselytising. Brendon listens, generally without comment, to all that Elder Fields has to say, and interacts only when necessary. 

It isn’t that he is opposed to working with these people—or wouldn’t be, if he had anything to offer. But these people don’t need to be preached at. They don’t need to be baptised. They need homes with four solid walls and a roof that doesn’t leak under the (oh so frequent) tropical storms. They need a water source that isn’t contaminated with waste. They need vitamins and vaccines and a real medical clinic, not the raw brick building at the edge of the rainforest, with its packed dirt floor, forever smelling of excrement and death. 

Brendon hadn’t known, before arriving, that people still lived like this in the world. It seemed like something out of a movie or a bad nightmare. Now, he finds himself wondering every day if this is part of his test, and then he wonders, hasn’t he been tested enough. 

As he is drying himself, he hears the others moving around and hurries to finish and be out of their way. Elder Fields likes to follow the schedule rigidly, and Brendon finds that it’s best for him, too. Idle time leads to idle thoughts, and all that. His psychiatrist had agreed, when she’d prescribed the Adderall. 

Elder Fields reads aloud selections from the Book of Mormon and Brendon doesn’t bother to ask any real questions. He’s been there, done that. He remembers a time when he was passionate about learning and had so many questions, but he can’t remember what it felt like. He looks back on his youth (because he thinks of it like that, he really does—he’s eighteen and he feels like he’s eighty), and can’t believe that he used to be filled with energy and enthusiasm. 

He’d said, “The prophet Mormon took the writings of his predecessors—written as inspired by the Lord—and rewrote those records, and Joseph Smith adapted parts of the Bible saying that the translations were lost or wrong…but I don’t understand…how could the Lord inspire all those men to write one thing, then inspire different men to change what had been written before?” 

His Sunday school teacher had been frozen, her expression one of muted disbelief, maybe edged in horror. It wasn’t the last time Brendon saw that look. He was taken aside later by Elder Hatchet, spoken to in low tones about how “historical and doctrinal inaccuracies are a test of one’s faith.” 

He’d tried different tactics—less antagonistic. Like, he was told that Christianity tried to manipulate the teachings of Christ to suit their own needs and desires. But the Words of Wisdom didn’t explicitly say “no caffeine.” What they said was, “hot drinks are not good for the body or the belly.” Brendon thought that was pretty literal, only then the Church decided it meant no caffeine. 

One crisp autumn evening, having just finished with a church service project, the leaders served hot chocolate and hot cider. Brendon had laughed and said, jokingly, something to the effect of wisdom being relative to external temperature. The lecture he’d gotten from his father and two elders had taught him to keep his mouth closed. 

Now, Elder Fields reads and Brendon says what he knows is expected of him. He may not feel it, he may still be struggling to believe in it, but he _knows_ what the Book of Mormon teaches. He knows how to teach it to others, in English or Spanish or Portuguese. 

They have breakfast and ten minutes later it comes back up in the toilet. Brendon’s still bowed over the porcelain when Elder Fields passes by. “Looks like you’re sick again,” he says unhelpfully, his tone saying _do something about it_ , and Brendon would, if he could, but the only real medicine in this town is the medicine Brendon brought with him, and it doesn’t do anything for whatever keeps cycling through Brendon’s weakened immune system. 

His mouth is dry again, and there are only two bottles of water left in the storage room. He sips from his bottle slowly, but no matter how many times he does, it doesn’t seem to quench the thirst. He _really_ doesn’t want to go back to drinking the boiled water. 

There’s something ironic, Brendon is sure, about the fact that he’s living in a rainforest, the air so thick with humidity that he feels like he’s walking through water when he steps outside, and he can’t find any quality drinking water. Something. But Brendon has never been good with literary terms, and what does it matter, anyway. The thought strikes him as amusing one second, but before he can be moved to laughter by it, it has passed. Brendon can’t remember the last time he laughed. 

Brendon still can’t keep anything down when President Alfaro comes three days later. He confirms what Brendon and Elder Fields and the others already knew in the back of their minds. They are being relocated for now, while the situation in Tapauá is reassessed. Elders Aaron and Lawrence are being sent back to Belo Horizonte, Elder Fields to another village further north along the river, where he will join another group and Brendon…

They’ve noticed his repeated illnesses, and while usually overcoming them would be seen as a sign of spiritual strength, they have decided that in this case a relocation would be best for all involved. There are some new missionaries in Chicago, who haven’t lived in a big city before, and someone experienced and down to Earth, like Brendon, will be good for them. Someone “with your excellent moral fibre, Brendon,” leaving aside the fact that his Spanish language skills will be helpful. 

Brendon thinks, _We believe in the gift of tongues, prophecy, revelation, visions, healing, interpretation of tongues, and so forth_ , the seventh article of faith. He thinks, apparently, that the Holy Ghost’s ability to inspire a person to spontaneously understand and/or communicate with a person in another language must not be working so well these days. He saw how Aaron just barely scraped by, memorising his testimonial in Portuguese. 

This mission is his duty, Brendon knows. He applied in the first place because it was what was expected of him, and now he will go where he is told, as is expected of him. He goes back to Manaus with President Alfaro, and thinks the whole while about the fact that fifty years ago, this man wouldn’t have been allowed to hold the priesthood. Brendon thinks he himself might just be the worst person to be sent to these boys. 

In his head, he hears his father, telling him that every day is a test. Brendon closes his eyes at night and prays for his test to end. He doesn’t even know exactly what that would mean, anymore. 

Ryan’s going a little stir-crazy. Two weeks ago, he wouldn’t have thought it possible, he’d been worn so thin from school and work, but now he’s losing it. School’s out until the second week of January, and without the insane schedule he keeps—juggling his two majors, turning in either a paper or an art project practically every day of the week—juggling two jobs is like a cakewalk. 

“What you _need_ ,” Jon says, waving a mostly empty plastic bag enticingly, “is to _relax_ , Ryan Ross.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes, because he’s gotten at least that comfortable with Jon’s drug use. Not comfortable enough, however, to join him in it. He taps his fingers uneasily on the windowsill and says, “Is your store still looking for more seasonal workers?” 

Jon does not look impressed. “No way. It’s three days before Christmas. Also, I’m not sure that it’s _more_ caffeine that you need.” 

Ryan doesn’t want to work at Starbucks, anyway. He wants Spencer back. It feels weird that now, after spending a year biding his time at UNLV so that he and Spencer could go away to college together, they’re separated at Christmastime. It’s the first Christmas they’ve not been together in over a dozen years. 

He’s already read the first two novels for the American Literature class he’s taking next quarter, and he’s been messing around with a mixed media project when he isn’t waiting tables at the café downtown or running registers at Target. Christmas traffic means more hours, for which he is infinitely thankful. But there are other people who want hours, too, and who have seniority, so he still finds himself with more downtime than he knows what to do with. 

The blizzard outside is enough to keep him from going out, even if just to the bookstore or a movie. He’s getting used to the weather here, but that doesn’t mean he’s ready to venture forth into the snow and wind unless he _has_ to. The new neighbours downstairs apparently have no such qualms. 

There are four of them, sometimes going out all together, other times only in pairs. They’re always dressed in nice but inexpensive looking suits, and they all ride bikes. Mostly students live in the building, but these guys look young enough to be recent grads. Jon reasons that they’re probably either really energy conscious or too broke to afford a car. 

Ryan starts making up a story about them in his mind—four brothers who’ve just lost their parents, facing their first Christmas alone, barely bringing in enough to keep their heat on. He sighs again, maybe for the fifth time in as many minutes, and presses his forehead to the frosted windowpane. 

“You know,” Jon says conversationally, but there’s something hiding underneath the casual tone, something that makes Ryan tense in anticipation. Not the good kind, either. “Maybe you just need to get laid. Work off some of that extra energy…” He makes licking the paper of his joint look downright lascivious. 

Ryan stands abruptly, going to the hall closet and jerking out scarves and hats and mittens, tugging on his boots and coat. Jon tracks the movement, eyes heavy and amused, and just the wrong side of mean. “I’m going out,” he says, and slams the door behind him. 

_Fucking Jon Walker_. Ryan wouldn’t have thought, when he’d first met Jon six months ago, that the guy was capable of being such a complete and utter dickhead. He’d thought, at the time, that there had never been a kinder, less assuming guy in all the world. Jon’s trying really hard to show Ryan how wrong he’d been. 

It’s actually colder out than Ryan had originally assumed, but he doesn’t feel like going back now, so he grabs a coffee at the Starbucks on the corner and sits in the store, scratching out random ideas on a napkin. 

Since moving to Chicago, he’s already filled up another book with lyrics and he and Jon have been coming up with some pretty awesome musical accompaniment. Jon fits better with the band than Brent ever did. But no matter how good the music is, no matter how much Ryan invests himself in the lyrics, he knows it isn’t enough. Jon’s got a nice voice for backup and Ryan can hold a tune for the most part, but neither of them are singers. 

Every time he writes a new song, he remembers the email. He’d printed it out when he’d first received it, because, well, no matter what it said, just getting the email back was an accomplishment, right? 

Ryan had kept it taped to the inside cover of his lyric book at the time, even though Spencer had gone on about how torturing himself wasn’t going to do them any good. He doesn’t keep it in his notebooks any longer. He’s long since memorised what it says. 

_you’ve got a unique sound & some awesome lyrics, btu stage presence is evertything man. hit me back when u find ur frontman_

Sometimes, when Ryan thinks about it, he imagines Pete Wentz’ stupid, smiling face, and wants to punch something. All the same, he knew then, and still does now, that Wentz was right. Ryan has _tried_. He’s met some people, first at Spencer’s insistence, and then some friends of Jon’s from the Chicago scene, and some of them have even been _good_. 

The problem is that whenever it gets to the point when he’s supposed to hand over his lyrics, he just can’t bring himself to do it. Maybe Pete would understand that. Pete was fucking lucky. Ryan hasn’t managed to find his Patrick just yet. 

He ends up scratching out some really whiny, self-indulgent shit that he won’t even bother showing to Spencer (but still can’t bring himself to throw out) and it’s starting to get dark out, so he decides to head back. A few of his friends are throwing holiday parties—quiet, toned down, intellectual dinners. There might be a bit of wine, but no one will expect him to drink it. It will be good to socialise with someone who isn’t Jon. 

One of the new guys is sitting on the stairs when Ryan gets back. The guy is kinda small, swallowed up by his jacket, hood tugged up and tied tightly under his chin. He’s studying his shoes intently, but looks up when Ryan starts up the steps. 

“Oh,” the guy says. “Hey. I’m not trying to be creepy or anything. Could you let me in? I really live here. I just moved into 1C.” 

Ryan nods vaguely as he unlocks the front door. “I know. What are you doing out here?” He holds open the door for the guy, who hurries to his feet and gives Ryan a grateful smile as he passes. 

“I forgot my keys inside, and I got separated from my roommates,” he explains. He stomps his feet a few times on the runner in the hall and stands there shivering. It isn’t much warmer inside the hall than outside. 

Ryan isn’t a douche bag, unlike some Jon Walkers who shall remain unnamed. The guy looks frozen through, and Ryan can totally sympathise. Locals seem to take the cold in stride, but this guy looks, like Ryan, as though he’s from some place that made him unaccustomed to winter. Bringing him upstairs will not only make Ryan appear neighbourly, but will have the added bonus of meaning Ryan won’t be alone with Jon. 

“Wanna wait for them upstairs?” Ryan asks. 

“Uh…” The guy looks at him with wide eyes, like Ryan just asked if he wanted to torture some kittens or something. “Well…I probably shouldn’t.” 

Ryan raises an unimpressed brow. “Whatever. It’s cold down here.” 

“Yeah,” the guy says slowly. “Maybe a few minutes would be alright.” 

Ryan shrugs and fights the urge to roll his eyes, at least until the guy can’t see it anymore. He leads the way up to the third floor. “I’m Ryan, by the way,” he says as he unlocks the door to 3A. “That’s Jon.” He points to where Jon is lounging in the exact spot Ryan left him on the sofa, watching a South Park re-run. 

The guy just stares at them for a couple seconds before he gets the point. “Oh. Oh, I’m Brendon,” he says. He finally pushes his hood back and he’s got a pretty face—big eyes hidden behind red framed glasses and full lips that look in need of chapstick—and rather unfortunate hair. 

Jon gives them both an assessing look, and Ryan suddenly gets that this might look like he was planning to take Jon’s advice, and went out to pick up some guy. “Brendon’s one of our new neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says, in a warning tone. “He got locked out.” 

“Ah,” Jon says, and doesn’t appear entirely convinced that’s all there is to it. Frankly, Ryan doesn’t care. “Dude, you look fucking frozen.” 

Brendon flinches and takes a hesitant step back towards the door. “I just. I’ve never been someplace it snowed before,” he says at last, which isn’t much of an answer, but it’s enough to be going on. 

“Want some coffee?” Ryan asks, undoing his scarves and hanging them in the closet. Brendon’s still standing there, unmoving, wrapped up to his chin. “You can take off your coat.” 

“That’s okay,” Brendon says and gives Ryan a small smile that looks painful. It makes something in Ryan’s chest ache, inexplicably. Ryan has enough problems with Jon and Spencer; he doesn’t need random guys with bad hair making his chest hurt, too. “I, uh. Don’t like coffee.” 

“I can make some hot chocolate,” Jon offers with a ready smile. For all his faults, Jon is really good at reading people. “I’ve got a secret recipe.” He smirks at Ryan as he adds, “I’ve been told it’s orgasmic.” Brendon makes another uncomfortable face and Ryan throws his wadded up gloves at Jon’s face. 

“I don’t really like hot chocolate, either,” Brendon practically whispers. He swallows hard. 

“Dude, who doesn’t like hot chocolate?” Jon asks teasingly, but Ryan sees the panicked look in Brendon’s eye. 

“Hey, come into the kitchen. We’ll find something you like,” Ryan says. Jon gives him a look behind Brendon’s back, eyes wide and demanding _what the fuck were you thinking?_ That’s not fair, because Ryan couldn’t tell the guy was going to be a huge freak just from looking at him. 

Brendon turns down Ryan’s offers of soda, beer and tea before finally saying, “Water’s fine. I’d like some water.” 

Ryan gets down a glass and turns on the faucet. “Sorry. We don’t have a filter or anything.” 

“It’s alright,” Brendon says with a sweetly reassuring smile, but his eyes are distant. He takes the cup between his still gloved hands. “It’s better than the last place I lived.” 

They stand by the window overlooking the street and Brendon takes small sips of the water. When it becomes obvious he isn’t going to offer any more, Ryan decides to ask. It’s already fucking awkward. It isn’t like he can make it much worse. “Why’s that?” 

Brendon looks at him over the rim of the glass. He bites his lip, worrying at the dry, loose skin. It looks painful. “I was on a trip for my church,” he explains. “Out of the country. We had to boil the water there.” 

Ryan wants to ask more, like what country they went to, but he gets the feeling if Brendon wanted him to know, he would have said. Besides, the church trip thing is enough to turn Ryan off big time. It explains why Brendon’s such a weirdo. Religious freaks creep Ryan out. 

An uncomfortable silence stretches between them and Ryan decides that being neighbourly is really overrated. Also, no matter how weird things are with Jon, talking to this guy is infinitely worse. Thankfully, as the last of the daylight disappears from the sky, three familiar bikers come around the corner. 

“Thank you so much for your hospitality,” Brendon says, “but I should definitely get going.” 

Ryan sees him out and flops down on the sofa, very aware of the look Jon is giving him. “What the fuck, dude?” Jon asks, more in wonder and disbelief than anything else. 

“Whatever,” Ryan says, flicking a hand. “Can’t be any weirder than Ballerina Lady across the hall.” Which is so, so true. Really, Ryan thinks maybe he should have learned his lesson about inviting in strangers by now. Regardless of whether or not they live in the same building. “At least now we know.” 

Jon tips his coffee mug towards Ryan’s, clicking the porcelain together. “And knowing is half the battle,” he says. They stare at each other, solemn and still for a minute, before bursting into laughter. 

Sometimes it hurts being this close to Jon, and never closer. Ryan supposes, dickhead or not, he wouldn’t give Jon up for anything. “I miss Spencer,” he says mournfully, face squished where it’s fallen pressed into Jon’s shoulder. 

Jon shifts and gets an arm around him, lips brushing Ryan’s hair as he speaks. “Me, too.” Ryan doesn’t think about what that means. His jealousy is stupid and hypocritical, and doesn’t do any good. Instead, he snuggles closer into Jon’s side and makes himself laugh at the jokes on the television. 

Chicago is bitingly cold and even after a couple of weeks Brendon is taken aback by it. The coldest weather he’s every experienced was living in Utah, and it was never like this. There is ice on the streets and every time he exhales, Brendon feels like his lungs are going to freeze and stop working. 

“Guys,” he says, when he meets his companions downstairs. He thinks about lecturing them, and then decides it isn’t worth the effort. “Just. Next time can someone leave me with a key?” 

Elder Link gives him a disparaging look. “You’re not going to go tattle on us, are you?” 

There are several responses Brendon thinks he might give to that—from rolling his eyes to snapping out something rude and cutting. Brendon remembers a time when he was sarcastic and the word _fuck_ rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. Now, he finds himself sighing and saying in a resigned tone of voice, “It’s your eternal soul, not mine.” 

Elder Felps mutters something undoubtedly mean and Elder Mathis cracks up laughing, giving him a high five. Brendon brushes past them down the hall to his room. Ostensibly he is meant to share with Elder Mathis, but none of the others keep to the schedule set for them, so most nights he sleeps in the room alone. He doesn’t really care, one way or the other. 

Brendon is still recovering from the variety of illnesses he contracted in South America. It’s still a little difficult to believe that he had _malaria_. Like, seriously. He thought that stopped being a serious concern a hundred years ago. The Church’s administered vaccines don’t do anything against it because, apparently, there _is_ no vaccine for it. 

Regardless of how the illnesses were contracted, the result has been that Brendon is to retire after dinner each day, excused from teaching in the evenings, until he is at full strength again. He should be making a list of his plans for the next day, but there isn’t really a point. He can change all the little details however he wants, but his day is forever laid out the same, as set by the Church. 

Outside his window, the city is coming to life. No one seems to mind the cold at night, Brendon has noticed. The area of town they’ve been placed in is close to three different colleges, and because of the student population, clubs have sprung up all around. Brendon idly wonders if the guys upstairs are students, and if so, if they frequent the clubs. 

Once upon a time, Brendon had thought he’d be going away to college somewhere out here—Illinois or Indiana, or maybe even on the coast someplace like New York or Massachusetts. He’d looked through pamphlets in the guidance office at high school and imagined what it would be like to live in a dorm, with no one’s rules but his own. 

That was before his parents had made it abundantly clear that Brendon would be going to BYU, and no, that was not negotiable. By the time applying became an issue, Brendon had long given up hope or desire to go anywhere else. 

Still, he finds himself thinking about it. Those guys didn’t look much older than him, and they had their own apartment, their own refrigerator and television. They probably had part time jobs and studied whatever they wanted, and drank coffee and didn’t feel conflicted about any of it. Brendon can think about it all he wants, but he doesn’t think he’ll ever understand. 

Brendon closes his eyes and lies back on the bed. Unbidden, Ryan’s face comes to mind. Brendon has accepted that he’ll never stop thinking about boys like he does. He’s never told anyone, and he never will. But he knows as long as he doesn’t act on these feelings, he’s alright. 

The Church knows that sometimes homosexuality tempts even the most devout. It is something that can be overcome, and Brendon will do what he must, when the time comes, and marry a woman. 

The thoughts don’t go very far, anyway. Just a random musing on how nice the colour of Ryan’s eyes is, and how tall and slim he’d looked in the tight jeans he’d been wearing. It was obvious that Ryan had thought Brendon was a freak, so it isn’t like there’s really any temptation. 

He falls asleep before ten, reading the Book of Mormon. He doesn’t remember his dreams—he never does—but he wakes up grinding his teeth and with his arm numb under his body. He relaxes his jaw and massages the feeling back from his palm up. It’s only four, but he knows he won’t be getting back to sleep. 

Routine is good. Brushing his teeth, taking his meds, showering. He does all of his studies on his own now. His first attempts at trying to get the others to study with him had failed spectacularly, and Brendon knows trying to force the guys into studying won’t do any good. He doesn’t mind studying on his own. He knows it all practically by heart, anyway, and he’s not likely to say anything offensive about the inherent fallacies of the text when there’s no one around to hear. 

Routine makes the days go faster, and Brendon prefers things that way. The faster the days go, the sooner his mission ends, the sooner college begins, the sooner it finishes, the sooner he finds a job, the sooner he marries, the sooner he has children, and maybe then he’ll be able to breathe, having done all that is expected of him. 

His companions treat the whole mission like some extended vacation before going to school. Elder Felps has said flat out that he plans on going inactive as soon as his parents have finished taking care of his schooling, and Brendon assumes the other two feel much the same way. 

Still. “It would be easier on you if you at least _pretended_ like you were doing your work,” he says to them. 

Elder Mathis gives him a sharp, unimpressed look and says, “What do you care?” 

Brendon blinks a few times. Sometimes the world seems brighter and more _real_ , and then the fog swallows him back again, quickly and completely. He can’t remember why he said what he did. “I—I don’t,” he answers at last, and Elder Mathis snorts and leaves. 

It’s scary, sometimes. At least, Brendon thinks it should be scary, but he can’t summon the emotion. Disturbing, then, is perhaps the better term. It’s disturbing that Brendon can’t remember the last time he did care about something. He remembers the doctors telling him that if his malaria had continued untreated much longer, it could have become life threatening, but Brendon hadn’t _cared_. 

He hadn’t cared when he’d been throwing up his food every day, or when he’d been assigned to the middle of nowhere Brazil. His opinions are built on what the Church has told him, and if there is no precedent, then he has no opinion at all. At least, not any that he lets himself voice out loud. 

Brendon isn’t supposed to do his missionary work on his own, either, but he does. It’s that, or not go at all. Or tell someone at the mission house that his companions aren’t doing their work, but he really isn’t a nark. So he goes alone. No one he speaks to knows any better, and in a way, he thinks this might be better. This way no one can watch him lying to these people, telling them stories he doesn’t even believe. 

Most evenings he has dinner with members of the local congregation. Living in Chicago is far more expensive than Brazil. He’s saved money most of his teenage life to pay for his mission, and his parents have contributed, but it makes things easier to accept the charity of others. 

The families are always happy to have Brendon. Even after only a couple of weeks he is recognised as a fine addition to the Chicago mission. Each Sunday he is met with offers to visit throughout the week, and he readily accepts. It is preferable to being alone at home, and he is alone there, even if the others are around. 

When he returns to the apartment every night, he goes and sits on his bed. He hears the neighbours going about their business, hears distant strains of music he isn’t allowed to listen to, and laughter he can’t remember the sensation of. 

Throughout the day the drugs make him feel calm and vaguely disconnected, but as they begin to wear off, close to bed time, Brendon is struck with the strangest sensation. His brain feels clearer, like he’s just woken up from a long dream, and the heavy feeling of depression lifts. Sometimes he finds himself smiling for no reason at all, and it isn’t the smile he’s practiced in the mirror, that looks real, but feels foreign. It’s a real smile that makes his heart feel lighter, makes breathing easier. 

He wants to do something, to act. He wants to go out and breathe in cold air and feel alive. He wants to sing something, or go dancing, to kiss a boy just because he can and it’s something he _wants_. 

Exhaustion takes him at the same time, making him dizzy, and the strain of keeping his eyes open is downright _painful_. By the time he wakes the next morning, those wants are as distant as if they were dreamed, and as easily dismissed and forgotten. 

It isn’t as though Brendon doesn’t realise the danger of this dichotomy he’s created: the part that he allows others to see—faithful and obedient—and the part that lies mostly dormant but stopped believing years ago. He doesn’t know any other way to live, though. 

He wakes early and it’s still dark out and he wonders if he can do permanent damage to the muscles in his arm or something, the way he always abuses it in his sleep. He goes through the motions. Brushes his teeth, takes his meds, climbs in the shower. He can feel the medicine taking effect, chasing away the lingering tiredness while simultaneously making him feel as though he is trapped in a dream. 

Sometimes the depression creeps upon him slowly throughout the day, and sometimes it sweeps through his veins hot and fast, taking him by surprise. Today is one of those days, and he braces himself against the wall of the shower, shivering even though the water is warm. 

It’s devastating, this emptiness he feels, where he used to feel the Holy Ghost. He doesn’t even know anymore if he actually felt it or if he’d just been pretending because he knew that he was supposed to. It had _felt_ real, the knowledge that he wasn’t alone, that there was something greater than him. It had somehow made up for the cool look of disappointment in his father’s eyes and the detachment in his mother’s touch. 

He prays so hard he’s crying, tears mingling with shower water. He prays to feel something again, anything other than this crushing, hollow despair that his life will never be what he wants it to be. He prays to find his faith again. He prays and says, “Please Lord. Please see me through this.” 

Spencer had his misgivings about leaving Jon and Ryan alone over Christmas break. They were numerous and varied, from the fact that it would be the first time Ryan had been without him at Christmas since they were children, to the fact that it meant Jon and Ryan being _alone_ together. 

There are so many reasons that idea bothers him that Spencer doesn’t really want to delve into it. That doesn’t stop him. He’s practically buzzing with nervous energy the entire flight home, wondering what he will see when he disembarks from the plane. 

Will they be standing too close together at the gate? Will there be something in their gaze that he hasn’t seen before? If Spencer has to lose Ryan to anyone, he supposes that Jon is the best option. The problem with that is that he doesn’t want to lose Jon, either. He doesn’t want to lose either of them, least of all to each other. 

It isn’t fair, Spencer knows, but he still breathes a sigh of relief when he spots them by the baggage claim, standing at awkward angles to one another. They both brighten when they see him, rushing to meet him with open arms and bright eyes, but he knows it’s only a matter of hours before the discomfort returns. He prefers the discomfort if it means that none of them has to be hurt. 

“Miss anything exciting?” Spencer asks, watching in bemusement as Jon takes his heavier bag and Ryan the lighter, “Because you’re a _lady_ , Spencer Smith,” Jon had joked, the first time he’d taken Spencer’s backpack, back when that sort of comment still made Spencer blush and feel giddy and light. Oh so many months ago, he thought wryly. 

“New neighbours downstairs,” Ryan says and he and Jon share a look. 

“Oh god,” Spencer mutters. “Not like Ballerina Lady.” 

There’s a guy outside the apartment when they get back, trying to wrestle a bike up the front steps. Jon hurries up past him to get the door open. “Here ya go,” Jon says, smiling his easy smile that still makes Spencer’s stomach do a flip. 

The guy smiles tightly, almost like he’s in pain. “Thank you,” he says, and the two of them manage to get the bike into the front hall. 

“Brendon, this is Spencer, our other roommate,” Jon introduces. Brendon fumbles with his door key, not quite meeting any of their eyes. 

“It’s very nice to meet you, Spencer,” Brendon murmurs, almost too softly to be heard. He finally gets his door open and tosses them all a bland smile. “I suppose I’ll see you around.” 

Spencer manages not to laugh until they’re halfway up the second flight of stairs. Ryan gives him a questioning look. “Dude,” Spencer says, “didn’t you see his nametag?” 

“He had a nametag?” Ryan asks. “He was wearing a big coat. How did you even notice?” 

“He’s a fucking _Mormon_ ,” Spencer says, ignoring the question. “How could you not notice? We practically lived in the land of Mormons. Remember the Millers, down the street, and the McCoys?” 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Whatever. He was just being freaky. There are plenty of other religious freaks in the world, other than Mormons. How was I supposed to tell?” 

“So that means all those guys down there are doing their mission thingie?” Jon asks. “We only ever got the Jehovah’s Witnesses around our place.” 

“You’re not missing much,” Spencer says dryly. Living down the street from more than one Mormon family meant being regularly subjected to their well-meaning but obnoxious questions about faith and religion. Ryan had delighted in saying and doing anything to get them flustered. 

“Hey,” Ryan says suddenly, grinning deviously, “remember when Brent tried to convince us to audition that Mormon kid from his school?” They’ve both got bags, so Spencer unlocks the door and lets them go in ahead. 

Spencer remembers. He had never seen what the big deal was—Brent had gone on and on about how the kid could play a million instruments and shit, and Spencer might have thought Mormons were a little crazy, but he didn’t see how that affected their ability to play music. Ryan had been firm on the subject, shutting Brent down every time he’d brought it up until Brent had gotten fed up and disgusted and stopped talking about it. 

Same as he’d said back then, Spencer says, “I don’t know. He might have been okay.” 

“Yeah, right,” Jon laughs. “If Mormons are anything like Jehovah’s Witnesses, he probably would have taken one look at your lyrics and either tried to save your eternal souls, or gone running from Satan’s influence.” 

Ryan looks torn between appreciating Jon’s support and being offended by the way Jon chose to offer it. He settles for elbowing Jon ‘accidentally’ as they settle into the sofa. Spencer’s had those elbows shoved in his gut enough times to know when it’s purposeful and when it’s not. 

“My lyrics aren’t _that_ bad,” he says, but he looks mollified. “And anyway, I can’t imagine that is what Pete Wentz meant about stage presence. I don’t think some Mormon dork is going to bring the fans a-coming.” 

Jon coughs nervously. “I don’t think any of us can ever hope to know what Pete Wentz means about anything,” he says. Spencer narrows his eyes, considering. Jon always gets weird when Ryan talks about Wentz. 

Jon doesn’t talk about it a lot, but they know enough to know that Jon used to be in a couple local bands in high school. Spencer doesn’t think that Jon had some weird crush on Wentz, too, but he wouldn’t be entirely surprised to find that Wentz had sent one of Jon’s bands an email like the one Ryan had gotten. 

Ryan is starting to get that look on his face that means he’s thinking about Wentz, like how they’re lyrical soul mates or something, and Ryan just has to figure out how to prove it to the guy. Spencer clears his throat and jostles the couch unnecessarily when he sits. “You guys audition anyone over break?” 

“Without you?” Ryan asks sharply. Jon holds a hand over his heart like he’s been wounded. “Besides,” Ryan says, “I think every person on campus with any singing talent has already auditioned for us or has no interest in doing so.” 

Spencer bites his tongue against commenting on that. They all three know that there were a couple really fucking good auditions, but it always comes down to Ryan, clutching his lyric book like a lifeline and saying it doesn’t _feel_ right. Spencer won’t argue with that. He knows better than to. But the fact remains that Ryan has posted hundreds of fliers on every billboard on campus, and the calls have stopped coming. 

“You know,” Jon says slowly, like he’s weighing his words, “I know a few people who might be interested.” 

Ryan perks up immediately and Spencer is intrigued. Jon doesn’t really talk about the bands he was a part of, before deciding to focus on school. He says he wants to be known for his photography, or what he decides to do in the future, not for whatever he did in the past. 

Spencer isn’t sure what _that_ is supposed to mean, especially since Jon has committed to Panic! and Jon _knows_ that Ryan plans on making it big. Ryan lets it go, Spencer knows, because he thinks there was something bad about the last band breaking up. Spencer knows Jon still goes to the clubs downtown fairly often, but Ryan still can’t bring himself to go, and Spencer won’t go without him. 

“I mean, most of my friends who want to be in bands already are,” Jon says. “But there’s this bar, the Pavilion. I played there sometimes, back…anyway, they have this Open Mic/Karaoke thing on Wednesdays. I’ve met a couple people there who were good, and they would probably be up for it.” 

Ryan’s shoulders sag a little and Jon notices, bites his lip. Spencer rubs his arm against Ryan’s, only in support. Whatever you think, he means, and Ryan understands it. “Maybe,” he says. His shoulders sag a little more, like in defeat. “Yeah. Maybe we should do that.” 

Jon smiles hesitantly. Spencer knows that Jon’s been trying so hard to get Ryan to this point, and the only reason he’s let it happen is that he knows Jon’s intentions aren’t malicious. With anyone else, Spencer would just put an end to all the peer pressure bullshit, but Spencer thinks maybe Jon knows what he’s doing. Thinks Jon might help. 

Spencer _doesn’t_ think what it means that Jon is helping in a way that Spencer never managed, even after over a decade of friendship. He can’t let himself think about it, or the way Ryan melts into Jon’s side as the idea of going to the club settles over him. 

“We should probably give everyone a week or two to settle back in after the holidays,” Jon says. “Maybe the 18th?” And, okay, there’s something about the way that he names the date that makes it seem suspicious. Ryan notices it, too. Spencer can tell by the sharpening of his gaze. 

Ryan nods slowly. “Yeah,” he says. “Makes sense. This place has been dead over the holidays.” 

Spencer laughs. “Our poor Mormons. They probably think they lucked out with this place. Some quiet little neighbourhood.” 

Jon giggles. “Dude, wait until Adam and Blossom get back. They’re going to flip out. 

Spencer doesn’t have a problem with Mormons per se. At least, not in the way Ryan seems to. But he can’t help but smile a little wickedly as he thinks about how freaked out their new neighbours will be, when everyone else comes back from winter break. 

Classes don’t start until next week, but Spencer didn’t feel like staying away so long. Seeing his family was nice, but even after only a few short months, Chicago has slowly begun to feel like home. He figured out long ago that home had a lot more to do with the people around him than the place where he found himself. 

Ryan’s been inside Spencer’s head forever, so Spencer isn’t at all surprised when Ryan snuggles closer, face tipped into Spencer’s neck, and sighs, “Glad you’re home.” The touch threatens to send shivers down Spencer’s spine, but he resists. 

Jon smiles at Spencer over Ryan’s head, like he knows exactly the effect Ryan’s having on Spencer, but his voice is warm and sincere when he says, “Yeah. Welcome home, Spence.” 

Time seems to move both very quickly and very slowly all at once. It is a contradiction that Brendon can’t really describe. One minute, he’ll think about how the day has been crawling along at a snails pace. This mission is never going to end, he thinks, looking back on the past months as though they have been years, and the length of another fifteen months stretching out before him seems interminable. 

Then he’ll blink and a week will have passed, almost without his knowledge, like his body is so used to going through the same motions every day, that it’s done them without the permission or involvement of his brain. 

It’s been a long time since Brendon’s felt in charge of his own life, but this is different. It isn’t just following the rules and toeing the line. It’s losing bits and pieces of his days in a dim haze, and it makes him feel sick and anxious. 

His dosage hasn’t even changed in over a year and half, but he’s been feeling like he had when he’d first gone on the meds, when he was sixteen, when the dosage had been too strong and he’d stopped eating and stopped talking, and then just stopped functioning altogether before his parents finally noticed it wasn’t just the medicine calming him down, but the medicine stopping him altogether. 

He prays harder and harder all the time. 

Every Tuesday night, Brendon has dinner with the Fry family. David and Bambi are gracious hosts, and glad to have Brendon around to answer questions for their three children. Anna, at fifteen, is the oldest, with Jason at twelve and Bobby at nine. 

Midwestern Mormons are pretty different from those out west, Brendon has quickly discovered. Brother Fry had thought it would be a good idea for his children to be exposed to the differences in the schools of thought. Brendon, Brother Fry says, is the most committed Mormon he’s ever seen. If Brendon ever laughed anymore, he definitely would have laughed at that. 

Sister Fry makes lovely gourmet meals, showcasing her Mormon education on how to be an ideal wife. Sometimes Brendon thinks the only way he might feel worse is if he’d been born a female Mormon. 

They’re really nice people, though, and the most lax of the families he regularly dines with. They seem to genuinely care about each other, and express interest in Brendon’s interests and testimony (which he delivers by rote—he’s always felt there’s something wrong with him, that he’s never had the same enthusiasm about sharing his testimony as everyone else). 

Jason and Bobby are polite but easily excitable, and want to hear stories about growing up in the desert and travelling in Brazil, and they love when he tells them stories from the Bible. 

Anna is silent for the most part, and doesn’t really look the part of a good little Mormon girl—she wears lots of heavy eye makeup and slouches a lot, and when she’s not at the dinner table she’s usually listening to loud music on her headphones. But her parents never call her on it, which is so strange for Brendon to see, so used to his parents snapping if he stepped the slightest bit out of line with their expectations. 

It takes about a month of regular Tuesday dinners before Anna even talks to him. There’s something about her that makes Brendon unaccountably nervous. It isn’t attraction or anything. 

She’s pretty—really, really pretty—with a soft round face and blue eyes and dyed black hair that falls in a straight sheet down her back, striking against her pale skin. She’s scary skinny, though, in that fragile breakable way that means there’s something wrong, and besides, Brendon accepted years ago that he didn’t really like girls. 

Still, something about the way she looks at him makes Brendon’s skin buzz uncomfortably. She corners him unexpectedly after dinner when the boys are helping clear the table and Brother Fry has gone to answer the phone. She’s fidgeting, tugging on her on her sleeves with her thumbs, biting her lip. 

“Did you—” she pauses and looks everywhere but at Brendon. “Did you ever think that some of the rules were kinda stupid?” she finally finishes. 

Brendon doesn’t even know how to begin with that. “I think the rules are there to help us, even if we sometimes don’t understand how we benefit from them,” he answers, and it isn’t even a lie. 

Anna huffs a sigh. “But. I mean. Like, what about the whole no dating before sixteen thing? I mean, my friend Rose is about to turn eighteen, and her mom’s already talking about her getting married and having kids, but she’s never been on a real date.” 

“You know, Anna,” Brendon says delicately, “I’m really not the person to be talking to about this.” He offers her a weak smile. “I’ve never been on a date either. This is really something you should be talking to another woman about. Maybe we could find one of the ladies at church to help you out?” 

Anna frowns. “I don’t want to talk to any of the ladies at church. They all say the same sort of things, eternal mate, purity and modesty and—”

“Look,” Brendon interrupts, stomach squirming, “I really shouldn’t be talking to you about this. I wouldn’t be any help at all. But if you don’t want to talk to a woman from church, I can ask around the mission house, see if there are any female missionaries who could come talk?” 

Anna gives him a long searching look. “I don’t want to talk to…Never mind,” she says. “I thought. I thought you might understand. But never mind.” 

The apartment is empty when Brendon gets back. The rest of the guys are out—the apartment building came to life during the first week of January and now there are parties practically every night, music thumping through the walls and ceiling. Brendon’s companions have made fast friends with most of the college kids, listening to their music, eating their food, drinking their beer—breaking so many rules Brendon can’t keep track, and he doesn’t care, anyway, so long as _he_ doesn’t get involved in it. 

Brendon goes to bed early, because there’s really nothing else for him to do. He puzzles over his conversation with Anna, lets it keep him up even though he’s shaking with exhaustion. Because what did she _mean_? How did she think that _Brendon_ could help? Everyone goes on about how well put-together he is, the perfect example of a young Mormon. 

He tries to convince himself that it’s because he’s young, close enough to her age to be accessible. Plus he’s new, someone who hasn’t known her all her life. Someone with whom she can have a little anonymity. Someone who will leave within another year. Because there’s no way she could see him as a kindred spirit. 

When he wakes the next morning, the feeling doesn’t come back to his arm until he’s already in the shower. The pills rattle when he takes his daily dose, which means he’ll need to fill his prescription again soon. He has a p-day on Saturday. He’ll get it done then.

When Jon first met Ryan, he had a pretty clear idea that all the batting of lashes and shy smiles were leading him straight into Ryan’s bed. Jon had been totally down with that plan. He’s still certain that, if on that first night he’d gone back with Ryan to his place and Spencer hadn’t been there, they’d have totally fucked. 

If Jon had fucked Ryan then, he might have messed things up good. He’d read it wrong at first, when he’d seen the look Spencer had given them that night, when they’d stumbled in giggling and clutching each other’s arms. At the time, Jon had thought Spencer was jealous because he had a thing for Ryan. Now he gets that it’s a little more complicated than that. 

Jon knows, _knows_ that the only thing keeping him from getting both Spencer and Ryan into bed with him—at the same time, please, thanks—is Ryan Ross. Spencer isn’t going to go without Ryan, and but Jon can tell from the look in Spencer’s eye when he watches Jon and Ryan together, he’s totally down for kinky threesomes. 

It’s frustrating because every time Jon feels he’s gained some ground with Ryan it’s lost all over again. He’d thought he’d done a good job getting past the weird hang-ups Spencer and Ryan had about touching—they were fine cuddling with each other but got tense and uncomfortable when Jon had first tried to be a part of it. 

But now, when cuddling is a go, there are suddenly all new issues. Jon has never been a bitchy kind of guy. It isn’t in his nature. Yet. It’s like Spencer and Ryan are rubbing off on him or something (in every way except the way he wants). 

Jon doesn’t think he’s worked himself up to their level yet, but he’s definitely gotten used to taking cheap shots, saying anything to get under their skin—to _hurt_. It’s so out of character for him that it makes him uncomfortable, but he’s not ready to give them up yet. 

This is their third Wednesday at the Pavilion and Jon’s starting to get a little discouraged about finding a singer. Ryan isn’t making that easy. Jon gets that Ryan’s protective of his lyrics. He’d known just what a gift Ryan had given, when he’d first handed his lyrics over to Jon for him to read. The two of them, they’d had a sort of instant connection in a lot of ways. 

Ryan’s expecting that same connection with their singer. Jon knows it would be ideal, but he’s practical about it. They’ve heard some pretty good singers, some who would sound great with what they’ve written. 

Spencer’s not pushing the issue yet, though, so Jon’s keeping his mouth shut. Spencer knows Ryan better than Jon could ever hope to, and though it might seem like he’s overindulgent, he always calls Ryan on his shit when it goes too far, when Ryan’s being too unreasonable. 

Tonight Ryan’s by the door but he’s no longer on the automatic defensive, and Jon’s even seen him swaying a little with the music from time to time. Spencer gives Jon a little smile to suggest that he’s noticed, too. Jon’s been working on a beer since they arrived and Ryan didn’t even bat a lash when Spencer took the glass for a sip. Jon almost counts that as a bigger win than the music thing. 

Spencer has not only given his implicit approval, but he helps in lots of little ways. Like drinking from Jon’s glass, even though Jon doesn’t think Spencer has any particular overwhelming desire to drink. “I could get you one, too,” Jon offers. 

Spencer licks his lips, chasing the taste, and Jon sort of wants to just pin Spencer against the wall, but resists the urge and keeps his face blank. Ryan keeps his eyes fixed on the stage, like this conversation isn’t going on around him. “How are you even going to get it?” he asks, betraying his indifference. “How’d you get _that_ one?” 

“I have my connections,” Jon says, wiggling his fingers. “I _am_ a scene kid, you know. I used to play this place when I was sixteen, and I was getting drinks then, too.” 

“I always wanted to try a Long Island,” Spencer says. 

“Ryan?” Jon asks. 

Ryan shoots him a sharp smile, not nice, but not brittle either. “I’m good with my soda, thanks,” he says acidly. 

Jim is at the bar and he’s been serving Jon drinks since before Jon had a driver’s license. He’s subtle enough about it that there’s never been any trouble. “When are you gonna get back up there?” Jim asks, as he’s mixing Spencer’s drink. 

Jon shrugs, swallows his beer. He looks in the direction of his band long enough for Jim to follow his gaze. “Yeah, I’ve seen ‘em,” Jim acknowledges. “Don’t seem like your normal type.” 

“We might surprise you,” Jon says. Then he gives Jim a wry smile. “If we ever get our shit together.” 

“You know,” Jim says, “Jack’s been looking for a new bass player since Kyle went away to school.” 

Jon takes Spencer’s drink with maybe a little more force than necessary. But he knows Jim’s not the only one of his friends who’s going to have this sort of initial reaction to Panic! 

Jim doesn’t look impressed. “Whatever, dude. I’m just saying, your little emo friends aren’t going to be that well received here.” 

“They might surprise you,” Jon repeats, and walks off before he can get into it with Jim. He doesn’t want to fight with the guy; they’re friends, and he can’t blame Jim for the way he’s talking. Ryan does have a sort of ridiculous wardrobe of ruffled shirts and floral vests, and his pose and makeup scream emo kid. 

Jon slides an arm around Ryan’s waist and passes Spencer’s drink in front of him. It’s gratifying, the way Ryan gets right in Jon’s space, taller but so much skinnier, pressing close to Jon’s side. “You smell like beer,” Ryan says, and wrinkles his nose. Jon wants to kiss it, right on the tip. 

“Let’s get out of here,” Jon says. Jim’s words keep cycling through his head, and it isn’t like Ryan’s going to suddenly change his mind during the last few acts left tonight. 

Spencer makes a face. “I just got my drink,” he says. 

“So chug it,” Jon says, and then they both watch, in frozen amazement, as Ryan plucks the drink from Spencer’s fingers and takes a long sip through the straw. 

“What?” Ryan asks, at their expressions. “I’m not going to let him chug it all. He’ll get sick.” 

Jon never thought it would be so easy. He stops gaping, and Spencer takes it all in stride, sipping back and forth with Ryan while a really embarrassing middle-aged guy tries to cover The Stones. 

“You okay?” Jon asks, as they’re walking down the street towards the train station. Spencer’s eyes are a little sparkly, but other than that there’s no notable difference from normal. Ryan, on the other hand, can’t seem to walk in a straight line. Jon doesn’t mind, if it gives him an excuse to keep close to Ryan’s side. Spencer gets Ryan’s other side, helping him along. 

“I’m _fine_ ,” Ryan says, in that over-exaggerated sort of way people get when they don’t want you to know they’re drunk. He keeps raising his knees too high as he walks. “I’m not _drunk_.” 

Spencer gives Jon an indulgently amused grin over Ryan’s head. “I meant more like, you okay with having a drink?” Jon explains. 

Ryan purses his lips thoughtfully and tilts his face back to the sky. “I think,” he says at length, “that I need more time to process it.” That doesn’t sound _bad_ , Jon figures. Spencer’s small smile echoes that thought. 

There’s a party going on at Blossom’s when they get back to apartment building. Unsurprisingly the door has been left open and the party is spilling into the hallway. “Jon! Guys! Come on in,” Harry shouts. 

One thing he can say for their apartment block, all the students are pretty cool. Actually, with the exception of crazy ballerina lady, everyone’s pretty cool. No one is too cliquey, and the parties are all inclusive. In fact, it looks like a couple of the Mormon kids are hanging out. One is dancing with Sarah in the corner and another’s on the couch, playing PS2 with Blossom and Aaron. 

“Maybe next time,” Jon says. He and Spencer get Ryan up the stairs fairly easily. It’s sort of adorable, how much of a lightweight Ryan is. 

“It isn’t even your place, and you’re more popular than we are,” Ryan mutters into Jon’s neck, while Spencer unlocks the door. 

Jon tucks him closer and kisses his hair. “I can go home, if you want,” he offers. 

Ryan makes a drunken sound and nudges Jon in the gut with his elbow. He’s lost some of his precision and his restraint. It really fucking hurts. “Shut up,” Ryan says. “You know we want you here.” 

Jon knows. Well enough that while he’s still officially living out of his parent’s place he hasn’t spent the night there in at least two weeks, and that was just because his mom was getting on his case about coming by for dinner. He should be looking for his own apartment, but he’s holding out hope that when Spencer and Ryan’s lease is up in June they’ll maybe be getting a bigger place for the three of them together. 

Spencer tugs Ryan’s sheets down while Jon helps Ryan get his shoes off and they dump him into bed. There’s a moment when Spencer’s brushing his hand over Ryan’s forehead, a fond expression on his face, when Jon can imagine just what it would be like for all of them to be going to bed together. 

“It was better tonight,” Spencer says, over beers on the sofa. “I think he likes that Jesse guy that’s been there the past two weeks. Give him another month or two. We might actually be a real band come Spring Break.” 

“I’ll toast to that,” Jon says, and Spencer clinks their bottles together cheerfully. 

Jesse does have a pretty nice voice; rich and smooth. Maybe he doesn’t have the greatest range, but they can work with that. He’s never going to be a William or a Patrick, but then, who is? Jon’s heard from a few people that Jesse’s been looking for a band. It could definitely work. 

Yet…It doesn’t seem like the big revelation Jon had thought it would. There’s nothing clicking suddenly into place when he thinks of Jesse singing their songs. Jon tries to tell himself that he’s just been spending too much time around Ryan Ross, with all his absurd ideas of fate. Jesse will work just fine. 

Brendon has mixed feelings about p-days. For one thing, it’s really nice to wear something other than a suit and loafers. But Brendon has survived so long by following a strict schedule set first by his parents and the Church, and then by the mission house. That’s how he functions, and it keeps him from having to think too much about anything. 

P-days are all his, to do with as he pleases. Except Brendon isn’t sure _what_ would please him. Most days he wanders around aimlessly, buys groceries, goes to museums, or just rides his bike, exploring. It makes him feel uneasy, like any minute, without the safety of his schedule, he’s going to slip and…fall, do something wrong, something he shouldn’t. 

So Brendon has taken to making his own schedule for himself on his p-days. Elder Felps teases him about it mercilessly, but Brendon doesn’t really care what his companions think of _his_ habits. He’s not the one breaking rules left and right, and lots of people keep schedules for their lives. It isn’t like he’s doing anything unusual. 

Every p-day, Brendon makes himself sleep in. Of course, saying he’s going to sleep in and actually doing it are two different things, so it usually means he just makes himself stay in bed, even though he’s awake, until eight a.m. 

Sometimes after breakfast, he goes grocery shopping, other days he just walks through the park. He tries to allow himself some time without thought, while he feeds the ducks and watches the children playing. Luckily he’s young enough that that’s not creepy yet. It’s nice, though, seeing them have fun. Sometimes it even makes him smile a little bit. He thinks being married won’t be so bad, if it means he gets to have his own children. If he can make them happy. 

He has lunch at a little deli next door to the Starbucks by his apartment, and then spends some time in the pet store across the street. His parents have never been fond of pets, but Brendon thinks that once he has his own apartment, he’d like a dog. Something not too big, but not one of the tiny, yippy ones, either. 

Each week, he picks a new destination to visit. First Navy Pier, then Millennium Park, then the planetarium. If it’s far enough, he’ll take the El, which he actually really enjoys. 

Chicago has an amazing skyline, and Brendon likes to watch the city whip by in a blur. Plus, it’s a lot warmer than riding his bike. He doesn’t even mind the press of bodies, and he particularly likes the stations where people are performing or selling things. 

This p-day he has decided to visit the aquarium. He’s run out of pills, which makes him a little jittery and nervous, but he drops off his prescription on his way to the aquarium. Everything will be fine when he goes back to his missionary work the next day. 

The aquarium is good, for a while. It’s calming. Brendon likes the way the animals look, swimming, and the strange, moving shadows the water casts over the rooms. It makes him feel like he’s under water, too. Pressed down, held in place. 

Brendon’s never been to the ocean, but he thinks he’d like it. He thinks about floating on the waves, drifting down and down. People say drowning is a peaceful way to go. He thinks it would just feel like falling asleep and dreaming forever. 

By four, though, the fact that he didn’t take his medicine has caught up with him. He can’t stop _moving_. He remembers before he went on the drugs, when he had to constantly be doing something, even if it was just tapping his toe or twirling a pencil or something. It had always annoyed everyone—his teachers, his parents, his classmates. _Brendon’s so much better behaved_ , the teachers had said, when he’d gone on the Adderall. 

Despite the need to be active, it’s almost nice—it’s that same feeling of freedom he often time gets at night, like he’s breathing clean, fresh air and it’s wonderful. That feeling, however, is tinged with fear over what he might _do_. 

Suddenly, he becomes aware of all the opportunities available in the city around him. Chicago is full of life and culture and it’s all buzzing around him as he leaves the aquarium. The days are growing steadily longer as January comes to a close, but it’s still getting dark. 

A new sort of energy takes Chicago in the evening, different from daytime. During the day it’s no less intense, but it’s all related to work, commerce, money exchanging hands, students going to school. Now everyone’s finishing with work for the day, getting ready for the nightlife. He passes more than one bar on his bike ride, watches people begin to gather and feels an itch beneath his skin. 

That’s the only excuse he can give, how distracted he is, for running his bike into the side of a moving taxicab. It takes him a second to process it; one second he’s biking, the next he’s sprawled on the pavement, watching the spokes of his wheel spinning next to his head. 

The cab driver gets out, making a lot of noise, asking if he’s okay. Brendon’s head feels a little strange, but then again, he could attribute that to the lack of meds. He gets to shaky feet and surveys the damage. The front wheel and handlebars of his bike are bent all out of shape. 

Now that it’s clear Brendon hasn’t been hurt, the cabbie is shouting at him, waving his arms around frantically. “Sorry,” Brendon says, righting his bike. “I’m really sorry.” 

Brendon considers taking the El, but people don’t like it when people bring bikes on the trains, and he doesn’t want to make anyone angry. Instead, he ends up walking the bike back, lifting the weight off the front wheel. It gets darker as he goes, and he doesn’t even notice the car pacing him until the window rolls down and someone calls his name. 

“Brendon,” Jon calls. “You doin’ okay?” 

“Jon!” Brendon stops walking, balancing the seat against his hip. “What are you doing here?” 

“Offering you a ride?” Jon says. “What happened to your bike?” 

“Taxi got on the wrong side of me,” Brendon says. He can’t explain the grin that’s tugging on his lips, something that can’t be described as anything other than flirty. He’s noticed that Ryan is attractive, but how has he never noticed how good-looking Jon is? 

It’s gotten completely dark out while Brendon’s been trying to get his bike home, and he feels giddy and jittery all over, so he doesn’t even try to argue when Jon double parks and hops out of his car to help wrangle the bike into the trunk. 

“Are you alright?” Jon asks, when they’ve both settled in the front seat. His eyes are focused on Brendon’s bouncing knee. 

“Good,” Brendon says instantly. “I’m good. Hey. Can we stop by the Walgreens down the street from the apartment?” 

Jon gives him a hesitant little smile. “Yeah, sure.” They ride in silence for a few miles, the only sound that of the radio. Brendon lets his eyes fall closed and just drinks it in. It’s the first music he’s heard in months that isn’t church hymns or something overheard in a store or on the street. 

“Are you actually a Mormon?” Jon asks, after a few minutes. “Because Spencer thought you were, but your friends don’t seem like I’ve heard about Mormons.” 

“We are,” Brendon answers honestly. Some people get embarrassed by being Mormon, but Brendon has never understood that. Even when he wasn’t sure he wanted to be a Mormon anymore, he was never embarrassed by it. “My companions don’t really do what they’re supposed to.” 

“What’s that all about, anyway?” Jon asks. “Is it true you guys aren’t allowed to drink like, coffee and soda and things like that?” 

Brendon might take offence to that question from some people, but Jon sounds curious. He doesn’t seem like he’s trying to be mean. “That’s why I didn’t have any, that day Ryan invited me up,” Brendon says. He notices Jon’s expression and shrugs. “It isn’t a big deal. I’ve never had either one, so it isn’t like I feel like I’m missing anything.” 

“Yeah, but…” Jon stops, looking amazed. Brendon gets it. Most people are like that. 

“What else aren’t you allowed to have?” Jon asks, darting him a glance at a red light. Brendon appreciates for the first time that it actually seems to take longer to get from one place to another in a car, here, because of all the traffic. 

Brendon thinks about it for a second, wondering what’s okay to say, and what would just freak someone out. He lifts up his left hand, ticking off the points on his fingers as he lists, “No alcohol, no tobacco, no hot drinks, fruit ‘only in its season,’ meat only sparingly, and only in times of famine or cold.” He smirks to himself, knowing plenty of Mormons who have adapted the rules to fit their lifestyles. 

“That’s pretty hardcore, man,” Jon says, eyeing Brendon sympathetically. It’s a nice, gentle expression. 

“Or, like, the opposite of hardcore,” Brendon says, flashing a bright grin at Jon. His face pulls with the expression, so unused to it. After a second, he tones it down, but it still feels good, the stretch. He feels like he’s smiling all the way down to his toes and he never wants to stop

“You’re in a pretty good mood for a guy who just totalled his bike,” Jon says. He’s got a hesitant happy look of his own, as if Brendon’s mood is infectious. 

Brendon shrugs. He couldn’t really care less about his stupid bike right now. “You know what,” he says, watching the storefronts pass in a blur. Jon’s car smells like stale cigarettes. 

Jon gives him a look to show he’s listening. 

“I think I might like to try some coffee. Maybe,” Brendon says. He’s wanted to try it for years, since back in high school when all the other kids came to class with paper cups full, and right now Brendon can’t think of a single good reason why he shouldn’t. He isn’t the one who believes the strange, restrictive rules set forth in the Words of Wisdom. 

“You work at the Starbucks near our place, right? You probably know what’s good.” 

“Are you—are you sure?” Jon asks. “I mean, like, I wasn’t trying to make fun or anything. Like, you don’t _have_ to drink coffee.” 

Jon might be one of the sweetest people Brendon’s ever met. It’s too early to tell yet, and maybe it’s just Brendon’s general goodwill, but it seems like a safe bet. “No,” Brendon assures him. “I really want to try it.” 

“Well,” Jon says, tonguing the inside of his cheek thoughtfully. It’s sort of inexplicably hot. “If you’re going to have your first cup of coffee, it shouldn’t be at _Starbucks_.” 

Brendon bounces excitedly in his seat. “You gonna take me some place?” This is turning into the best p-day _ever_. 

They end up at a trendy little shop several blocks north of their apartments, closer to campus. It takes up two storefronts, and there are two counters inside, one for tea and the other for coffee, with a pastry case between. 

Brendon had known, in a way that was unavoidable living in America, that there were a lot of different flavours of coffee, and ways of fixing it, but seeing them listed before him is a little mindboggling. There are three chalkboards, written on in bright colours, listing the specials along with the ingredients to “make your own.” 

“Um,” Brendon says. 

Jon takes one look at him and cracks up. “Let me order for you,” he says, and Brendon puts himself in Jon’s hands. It is a wise choice. Jon comes back with something that might have been coffee in a past life. Now it’s caramel and vanilla and delicious. 

“So,” Jon asks. “What’s with the rebellion?” 

Brendon slowly twists the cup on the table top, watching the steam rise. “I don’t know if I’d call it a rebellion. I mean, maybe what my companions are doing could be considered a rebellion. But I wanted to try some coffee. I don’t see why it has to be about my religion.” 

“Fair enough,” Jon says, in that easy way that Brendon is ready to assume is his general attitude towards everything. 

“Maybe a non-violent resistance,” Brendon allows. He takes another sip of the coffee, letting the flavour wash over his tongue before he swallows down the mouthful. 

“So, like, what is your mission all about, anyway?” Jon asks. “The other guys don’t seem to talk about it much.” 

Brendon eyes him dubiously. “Do you really want to know about this, or are you just being polite?” 

“I think it’s interesting,” Jon says. “I’ve never met a Mormon before, really. I like to understand a different point of view.” 

Brendon has had people ask before, and usually when he begins to talk, their eyes glaze over. Jon, however, pays rapt attention as Brendon explains that his parents expected him to go on a two year mission before going to college for his business degree, and how he’s almost half-way through, and what the work entails. 

“If you just moved here, where were you before?” Jon asks. 

“They assigned me to Brazil first, because I spoke Spanish and French pretty well, so they decided I could pick up Portuguese. I did. It’s a really interesting language. I knew an exchange student from Brazil in high school. Anyway…” He wonders how much he should get into about Brazil, but Jon seems genuinely interested and Brendon hasn’t had anyone to talk to about it. 

So he tells Jon about the small village of Tapauá and how depressing and dismal it was there, but also he tells Jon about other things—things he’s realising even as he speaks, that hadn’t occurred to him while he was in Brazil, as affected by the drugs as he’d been. 

They’re the little things that managed to give him pleasure—helping the children with their homework and playing soccer with them in the evenings, helping at the clinic, going with the doctor to even smaller villages further from the cities. 

“That’s pretty awesome,” Jon tells him, in all sincerity. “You’re like, eighteen years old and you’re out there doing shit—er, stuff, and helping people. Most people your age are out partying and wasting their time.” 

“I guess,” Brendon says. “But I wasn’t really helping them.” He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “I was preaching at them. They didn’t need that. There are other ways I could have helped, if I hadn’t had the Church telling me what to do. 

“Besides, Elder Link said you and Ryan and Spencer were a band, right?” Brendon asks. “I don’t think that’s a waste of time. I think music is really important. I think it can help people, too. It’s probably the only thing I really miss about being on my mission.” 

“You’re not allowed to listen to music?” Jon asks, a sort of muted horror on his face. 

“Not really supposed to, no. I mean, even back home there are lots of things we’re not allowed to listen to. But when we’re on our mission, we aren’t supposed to be distracted from what we’re doing.” 

Brendon supposes that shows just what an excellent job the drugs were doing, because it’s only now that he’s hit by just how much he’s missed music. His fingers itch to touch an instrument. 

“Before I left home, I used to play piano everyday. It gave me time to be by myself, relax. At school I played drums, which was nice, but I really like piano better. I mean, sometimes I messed around with guitar, but only ever on my own. I’m not very good at it.” Which is a shame, because Brendon actually _likes_ guitar. 

Jon chuckles. “Dude, you speak three languages and play three different instruments, and you’re gonna go to BYU for a degree in _business_?” 

Brendon shrugs. “It isn’t like I have any choice,” he says, and is pleased that his voice is devoid of bitterness. He might have resented it once, but he’s come to accept that his parents have already decided the path his life will take. 

Jon doesn’t say anything to that, but Brendon can tell he wants to. The easiness between them evaporates at once and a tense, uncomfortable silence falls between them. “I should probably be getting to Walgreens before the pharmacy closes,” Brendon says. 

They part at Brendon’s door, the rest of the ride having passed in awkward, stilted small talk. Still, Jon stops Brendon before he’s closed his door behind him. “Hey,” Jon says. “If you ever want to talk. Or just hang out, whatever…” he shrugs towards the stairs. 

Brendon manages to summon a real smile. “Thanks,” he says, and means it. 

Most of his good humour has dissipated, now that the reality has come back to him. One good day doesn’t change _anything_. His circumstances are exactly what they were yesterday, and they’ll be the same tomorrow. So he drank coffee and flirted with a boy he thought was cute. Already he feels a vague thrum of regret over it all. 

Brendon is reminded all over again why his parents insisted he go to a counsellor in the first place. Without the medication, without the guidelines that have been set for him, he does things like _this_. 

He forces himself to go to bed early, even though the caffeine is making him jittery. He doesn’t want to think of what else he might do if he stays awake. There is music playing from a few floors up, and the lure of it is almost overwhelming. Instead, he puts a pillow over his head and forces his mind to go blank, and eventually it works. 

Brendon wakes up and he doesn’t feel any pain. His jaw isn’t tight, his fist isn’t clenched, his arm hasn’t gone numb. It takes him a second to realise it’s because he’s lying on his back, one arm over his stomach, one tossed casually to the side. His whole body feels loose and relaxed, and he feels like he’s actually _slept_ for the first time in ages. 

It’s brilliant. 

Then he gets up and goes into the bathroom and takes his meds. He showers and gets dressed and sits down for breakfast and the familiar, muted despair pours over him slowly but surely. It weighs down on his shoulders until he’s slumping over his Bible, entirely focused on the words before him and nothing else. 

At church that morning he prays for repentance for his moment of weakness. He watches the Aaronic priests, younger than Brendon, and no doubt more pious, too. They go through the motions of preparing and dispersing the Sacrament as Brendon did when he was their age. The tray is passed from Brother Nebbitt into Brendon’s hands and he has to refuse it. He is unfit to partake of it as he is. He vows to be worthy again. Yearns for it, silently and achingly. 

“Look,” Elder Mathis says later that evening, “I don’t want you thinking we’re friends or anything, but there’s a difference between being making the choice to be good and being too drugged out to have the choice.” 

Brendon blinks slowly at him because he doesn’t quite understand what Mathis is saying, and can’t process it. Mathis sighs. “You know how during pre-existence, in the war between heaven and hell God wanted mankind to have free will to make mistakes and overcome them, and Satan wanted no free will so that no souls could be lost and everyone could come back to heaven after they were finished on Earth? 

“And, like, it’s a little hypocritical of you to look down on what we do when the only reason you’re being so good is because you have those fucking pills that keep you down all the time. I mean. You could basically say _those pills_ are like Satan’s influence, you know?” 

It takes a few minutes for Brendon’s brain to get past the part where Elder Mathis just implied that Brendon was under Satan’s influence. When Brendon finally understands what it is that Mathis was trying to say, Mathis has already gotten up from the table and left the room. 

After he’d been caught smoking a joint, Brendon’s parents had dragged him to the church counsellor who’d referred them to a Mormon psychiatrist in the area. She’d spoken in a soft soothing tone about what was normal for a teenager, never once coming right out with any of the religious stuff, but it had been all very implicit. 

By the time she’d prescribed him his meds, the exhilaration of rebellion had passed, replaced with cold, gripping fear of what would happen if he didn’t clean up his act. His parents had made it clear that if he wasn’t a member of the Church, he wasn’t a member of their family. It had been easy to buy into what his psychiatrist was telling him when it was what he needed to hear at the time. 

Brendon doesn’t think his will has been taken from him. He knows that even without the medicine his little rebellion would have come to an end. There’d never been any reason for it to continue. He’d never had friends or anything outside of his family and the Church. Nothing else to which he could turn. 

But now, he thinks…he considers how he felt in Brazil, how often his actions had been contrary to his thoughts. Maybe he could be helping people in real ways, ways that mattered, and instead he’s going door to door trying to sell people on a faith he doesn’t even really have. 

He thinks of how in high school he’d been so desperate for a friend, or even a kind word—anything other than the teasing and taunting that came from being the awkward, slightly effeminate, weirdo religious band geek. He thinks of the casual way with which Ryan had invited him upstairs, and the easy kindness Jon had shown by helping Brendon when he could have just driven by and Brendon never would have known better. Taking Brendon out for coffee and actually _listening_ to what Brendon had to say.

Brendon can’t remember the last time someone’s listened without an expectation of what it is Brendon will say—the same old spiel about faith and piety, and his testimony. He talks all day long and never says what he truly believes, but Jon listened and it felt _good_ to be heard. 

Brendon thinks about it all night. He skips dinner, Mathis’ words working at his nerves, turning his stomach into an anxious, writhing mess. He feels the meds begin to wear off and then it becomes worse, because he can think more clearly, and doesn’t that just prove what Mathis said? 

Only Brendon refuses to believe it. He has his free will, and he can prove it. Probably two months ago he wouldn’t have even considered what he is considering now. But in comparison with how his companions behave, what he’s thinking is innocent. It’s against the rules, yes, but it seems so insignificant in the grand scheme of things. He works so hard and denies himself so much. He can have this, and he can prove Mathis wrong. 

He already studies more than is required, spending his evenings locked in his room with his book. He goes to sleep early by anyone’s standards. It wouldn’t hurt, and no one would even need to know. Even if his companions noticed, they wouldn’t say anything. 

He could go upstairs, like Jon had suggested. He could talk to Jon more, prove that it wasn’t just the lack of medication that had made their conversation easy. In a way it wouldn’t even be anything against the rules. He and Jon had talked about Mormonism. He could pass it all off as educating Jon, even if they both knew it would never lead to Jon’s conversion. Maybe, maybe he could even listen to some of the music Jon and the others made in their band. 

Brendon feels giddy just from the thoughts running through his mind. He falls asleep rationalising it, convincing himself it can’t do any harm. When he wakes up on his side with his arm numb and his mouth dry, he decides it doesn’t matter one way or the other what harm it might cause—it can’t be worse than the harm he’s already doing to himself. 

It isn’t rebellion, he tells himself. It’s survival. 

Ryan and Spencer come home to find Brendon sitting on the front steps again and Ryan asks, “Are your roommates like, dickheads, or something?” 

Brendon frowns and Ryan can almost see the gears in his head turning, trying to make sense of what’s been said. Finally he straightens his shoulders a little. “No. I mean, I’m not locked out. It was just…stuffy inside, and I was waiting for Jon to get home.” 

Ryan feels his brows shoot up, but he can’t help it. “He should be getting back soon,” he says cautiously. He really shouldn’t be offering, but Jon said Brendon was an okay guy, so he’s willing to take the chance. “Wanna wait for him upstairs?” 

Brendon looks back and forth between Spencer and Ryan and bites his lip, and the totally inappropriate thought that _it’s always the religious ones_ runs through Ryan’s head as he contemplates how nice Brendon’s full bottom lip would feel between Ryan’s teeth. He shakes his head to rid himself of the thought. He’s got enough on his plate as it is. 

“Yeah, that might be alright,” Brendon says, at length, and follows Ryan up. He even takes off his jacket this time. He’s not wearing his usual suit, just a loose pair of jeans and a sweatshirt that looks a couple sizes too big. 

“Aren’t you supposed to wear a suit all the time?” Spencer asks. Ryan gives him a glare, because _really_. 

Brendon looks uncomfortable, which Ryan is beginning to think is his default. He crosses his arms over his chest, and Ryan notices how thin and delicate his wrists look, framed by the huge sleeves of his sweatshirt. “I, uh…” he shifts on the spot and stares at his tennis shoes. 

“We don’t care what you wear,” Spencer interrupts, and Ryan, sort of inexplicably, wants to snap _why’d you even bring it up in the first place, then_. He doesn’t. Instead, he goes to the kitchen. 

“Would you like some water?” he asks Brendon. 

“Ah…actually, if you have some coffee…” Brendon says. 

Ryan doesn’t let his surprise show. There’s something familiar about Brendon’s request, something that makes Ryan think of himself, and how much he appreciated the fact that Jon and Spencer just didn’t say anything we he took his first drink. “I’ll start a pot,” he says. 

“You guys just get finished with school?” Brendon asks. His voice is slightly strained, but Ryan appreciates the effort. He has some idea of what it must cost. “What are you studying?” 

Spencer pauses in the process of unpacking his book bag on the dining table to give Brendon a look of consideration. “Undecided,” he says at last. “I’ve been taking some pre-reqs so far. A few courses I’m interested in. I think I might declare International Studies. Maybe French. I’ve been taking the first year for my language requirements.” 

“That’s really cool,” Brendon says, even if he doesn’t sound that enthusiastic. When Ryan chances a look, Brendon _looks_ sincere. Interested, even. “If you needed a tutor, I could help.” 

“In French? Really?” Spencer asks. 

Brendon shrugs, turning his feet out, staring at the floor. “I mean, yeah. If you needed.” 

Spencer narrows his eyes. Ryan knows that look. He just isn’t sure what makes him want to shield Brendon from it. He doesn’t even _know_ this kid. “Jon said something about you being on a mission in Brazil before you came here.” 

“We go wherever we’re called,” Brendon says. 

“But they don’t speak French in Brazil,” Spencer points out. To the casual observer it might not be obvious that he’s being a dick. 

“No,” Brendon agrees. “If you’re called to another country, some place you don’t know the language, you get lessons before you leave. I spent six weeks doing language lessons.” 

Spencer puts his hands on his hips. “You learned Portuguese in six weeks?” he asks. 

Brendon’s mouth is turning steadily down at the corners. “Well. Not all of it. But it was an intensive course, you know, and going helped. The immersion aspect.” He looks pleadingly at Ryan. “What are you studying?” he asks. 

Ryan leans in the doorway, feeling himself relax as the scent of the brewing coffee begins to fill the air. It’s been a long day. “Jon and I are the Fine Arts kids, who are going to waste four years getting our degrees in Art and Literature and then depend on Spencer to keep us in the mode to which we’ve grown accustomed.” 

Spencer snorts. “So, cheap coffee and ramen, and egg crates for bookshelves?” he asks and Ryan gives him an affectionate smile and bumps their hips together in answer. 

　 Brendon has the faintest hint of a smile on his lips watching them. “You guys been friends a long time?” he asks. 

“Too long,” Spencer says. Ryan hip checks him a little harder this time and says, “Don’t front.” Ryan sees the wistful, almost longing in Brendon’s expression as he watches them. Ryan recognises it from seeing it in the mirror often enough. 

“We always put on something to do our homework,” Ryan says. “Are you allowed to watch with us?” 

“No,” Brendon says. “But I want to anyway.” He sounds grimly determined. 

“Maybe something PG rated?” Ryan offers. 

“Right,” Spencer says and rolls his eyes. “What do _we_ own that’s rated lower than R?” 

Ryan digs around through their collection until he finds a copy of _Lilo and Stitch_ that he’s pretty sure must belong to Jon, because he sure as hell knows it doesn’t belong to him or Spencer. Brendon’s eyes light up a little at seeing it, though, so Ryan figures that works. 

They’ve just got through the opening scene, Brendon and Spencer sharing the couch while Spencer works on his calc homework, and Ryan spread out on the floor with his most recent colour theory project when Jon comes home. A huge smile spreads over his features when he recognises the music, and it gets even bigger when he sees Brendon. 

“I wasn’t sure you’d come,” Jon said, settling on the sofa between Spencer and Brendon. 

Brendon holds his coffee mug in two hands, staring into it as if it holds the answer to the universe, or something. “I wasn’t sure I was going to, either,” he says. Another tiny smile tugs at his lips. “This coffee is way different from the stuff you got me the other night.” 

“That’s because Ryan blows at making coffee,” Jon says in a stage whisper. Ryan purses his lips and flips Jon off over his shoulder. 

They lapse into silence over the movie and Brendon starts singing along with the song that plays. His voice is too low to discern pitch or anything, but he pronounces all the words clearly, like he knows what they mean. Spencer notices it. “You speak Hawaiian, too?” he asks, sounding unimpressed. 

“That’s awesome,” Jon says earnestly and Brendon colours. 

“I…not really. I mean, my mom’s Hawaiian, so I heard my grandparents speak it sometimes. You know. I know some words, nothing big.” 

Ryan isn’t buying it. Neither are the others. “You’re like some kind of prodigy, huh?” Jon asks, grinning. Brendon very pointedly stops singing along and doesn’t start again for the rest of the movie. 

“I guess he’s not so bad,” Ryan says later, when Brendon’s excused himself before dinner. 

Jon’s frowning though. “He was different, the other night,” he says. “I think—he asked me to stop by the pharmacy. I think he might be taking something that makes him…different.” 

Ryan thinks he might be able to understand that. Too often, living with his father, he saw how medication could change a person’s entire demeanour. He thinks about what it might mean, that Brendon decided to visit them, when Brendon had said he hadn’t been certain about it. Brendon’s eyes had got suspiciously moist during the movie at the point where Stitch said he was lost. 

“It’s not your job to fix everyone, Jon,” Spencer says, somewhat crossly. 

“I’m not trying to fix anyone,” Jon says placidly. “I don’t think anyone needs fixing.” He smiles and Spencer grumbles and disappears down the hall. “He mentioned he liked music. I was thinking about inviting him along on Wednesday.” 

Ryan arches a dubious brow. “You think he’ll actually go?” 

“I can ask,” Jon teases. 

“Well…about Wednesday…”

Jon looks at him evenly, and there isn’t anything suggestive about the way he says, “Yes?” 

“I thought maybe we could talk to that guy, Jesse,” Ryan says. Just _talk_ , of course. He has a nice voice, and maybe they could just jam sometime, get a feel for each other, but for all Ryan knows, Jesse could be a total ass. A lot of the people on the Chicago scene seem to suffer from serious personality problems. 

“Jesse’s pretty cool. He was in a band same time as me, in high school. We did some shows together.” Jon’s doing that fake casual thing he does that makes Ryan intensely curious. 

“You ever gonna tell us about those old bands of yours?” Ryan asks him. He likes the way Jon’s hair falls in his eyes, wants to reach out and push it back. He settles for snuggling up to Jon’s side. 

Jon puts his arm around Ryan’s waist and lays his head on Ryan’s. “Some day,” Jon says, half-joking, half-serious, and it makes Ryan want to know even more. “Some day pretty soon, probably.” 

“You’re a tease, Jon Walker,” Ryan murmurs sleepily. 

“Yep,” Jon agrees. Ryan can hear the smile even if he can’t see it. 

There’s work to be done—his colour project is only three quarters of the way finished, and he has to read three short stories before tomorrow. But Jon is soft and warm and when Spencer comes back down the hall and flops on Ryan’s other side, joining the cuddle pile, it’s settled for Ryan. 

Ryan falls asleep to _Empire Records_ on the television and Jon’s fingers in his hair, Spencer’s breath steady on the strip of skin between Ryan’s pyjama bottoms and t-shirt. In the dim, hazy place between sleeping and wakefulness, just before he finally dozes off, he forgets Brendon isn’t there anymore, and imagines what it would be like to have a fourth body in the pile, how someone else would fit. 

Anna stares at Brendon all throughout dinner, gaze heavy and unnerving. Brendon tries to distract himself by conversing with the rest of the family, but he’s painfully aware of her eyes following his every move. 

After dinner, the family moves around clearing the table and setting up games to play in the living room, and somehow Brendon ends up cornered by Anna in the hallway. “I’m gay,” Anna says, and for a moment Brendon’s too frozen with shock to say anything. 

Finally he settles on, “How do you know for certain?” 

Anna gives him a dark look. “I know, okay. It isn’t some phase or whatever. My friend Rose, the one I told you about. We’re in love.” 

Brendon can’t do anything but stare. Anna shifts and crosses her arms over her chest and stares back. “Have you…” Brendon takes a deep breath. “You know, sometimes it is difficult to distinguish between friendly love and romantic love. Sometimes we get so close to a friend that we get confused.” 

“I’m not confused!” Anna snaps. “We’ve done stuff, me and Rose.” 

“Anna!” Brendon looks around them worriedly, half-expecting one of her family members to be eavesdropping. “Anna, you can’t tell anyone else, okay? If you tell, they’ll—you won’t be able to be a member of the Church anymore, you know?” 

Anna frowns. “I don’t _want_ to be a member of the Church anymore,” she says. “I don’t want to have anything to do with it. How can _you_?” 

Brendon straightens defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he demands. 

“I can tell you’re not happy. You don’t want to be doing this. If everyone at church didn’t have their heads so far up their asses, they could see as well as I can how gay you are.” 

“Shut up!” Brendon hisses. “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m not—I’ve never. And you better not do it anymore, either. If someone catches you, or finds out—it isn’t just you at risk, but Rose, too. You have to pray, both of you, and you shouldn’t see each other any more.” 

“I can’t believe what a hypocrite you are,” Anna says. 

“I’ve never done anything!” Brendon whispers back urgently. 

“Then you’re a coward, too,” Anna says. “You’re miserable and you tell me to just pray? So I can be as unhappy as you?” She gives him a disgusted look and disappears upstairs. 

Brendon makes excuses to leave early, and tells Brother Fry that he’s going to be busy in the coming weeks and won’t be able to come over. He feels badly about lying to the Frys because they’ve been so kind to him, but he doesn’t know how he can face Anna after that conversation. 

It’s still early when Brendon gets home, but he just wants to crawl in bed and hide from the world for the rest of the night. It isn’t even the first time anyone’s guessed he’s gay. People at church are really oblivious, but the kids at school never were, and Brendon’s always been tiny and dressed strangely and too weird in a way that couldn’t be explained away by his being a freaky religious kid. 

He’s almost sick with nerves over the whole thing. He’s never done anything, but sometimes his thoughts alone seem like enough to condemn him. His parents know, of course, though he’s never told them and they’ve never brought it up. It’s been an understanding between them—they know and he doesn’t act on it, and he’ll get married one day and it won’t be an issue any more. 

But Anna…she’s so young, and to have already acted in such a way. Brendon can’t decide if he’s scared for her or envious of her, and that worries him a lot. She called him a coward, but there’s so much more to it than that. 

Brendon’s parents expect so much of him and it isn’t as he’s ever had anyone else in his life, anyone else who loved him or offered him anything like what his family and the Church offered. Besides, the Church knows of the temptation of homosexuality. They speak of the strength required to overcome it. Brendon has been strong. He has resisted. 

Unbidden, Elder Mathis’ words come to Brendon’s mind, asking how much of that resistance is due to him and how much his interest in such things has been curbed by his medication. It doesn’t make any sense, because the drugs don’t have anything to do with sexual drive. 

_But_ , his mind supplies traitorously, _the meds make you tired and depressed and you don’t feel like doing much of anything, let alone going out and meeting guys_. 

Brendon puts his hands over his ears, like he can block out his own thoughts, and curls up in a ball on his bed. He remembers when he was younger and it didn’t matter what anyone at school said or did, Brendon could always smile in the mirror and honestly say that he loved who he was and he loved his life. These days, Brendon doesn’t like to look in the mirror at all. 

There’s a knock on the front door and it takes a few minutes for Brendon to process, and then to realise he’s the only one home. He makes himself get out of bed and stumble down the hall, opening it to find Spencer staring at him with a vague expression of surprise. 

Brendon looks down at himself—pants hanging low on his hips, shirt wrinkled, messy, and too small from where Elder Link shrunk it in the laundry by accident. He isn’t sure what Spencer is staring at, but it makes him uncomfortable. 

“Yes?” he asks. 

“Sorry,” Spencer says, in a dazed voice, and looks up at Brendon’s face. “Um.” He pauses, like he can’t remember what he meant to say. “Oh. I was working on a paper for my French class…a composition on a controversial subject. I was wondering if you could look over it for me.” 

That’s a pretty big surprise, because when Brendon offered his help, he’d been pretty sure that Spencer really wasn’t interested. Still, Brendon _likes_ to help people. He could almost pretend he was just fulfilling his obligation. You know, if he hadn’t just been up there yesterday drinking coffee and watching movies. 

“You weren’t sleeping were you?” Spencer asks belatedly. 

“No. I’m fine. It’s fine. Come on, let’s go look at your paper.” He slides on his slippers and gets his glasses off the table. On his way out the door he grabs his keys from their hook by the door and follows Spencer upstairs. 

Stepping into the apartment, Brendon gets the impression that this is what home is supposed to feel like. It’s strange, because he’s been up here a few times now, but it’s different, somehow. 

There’s soft music playing—something catchy and indie—unobtrusive but so nice, as musically starved as Brendon has been. Something’s cooking, mingling with the smell of roasting coffee and it smells amazing. 

The place isn’t as messy as Brendon’s own apartment is, thanks to his companions, but it isn’t compulsively clean like his parents’ home. This place feels lived in; comfortable. 

“The guys went out to pick up more garlic bread—Ryan always makes the ones we buy to go with dinner and never gets new to replace it,” Spencer says, in that fond tone he has that makes Brendon wonder about the relationship between Ryan and Spencer. 

“Usually I’m okay writing the compositions, but this one is a bit more technical than the others. Before we’ve just written about our hobbies and families and stuff.” Spencer picks up a sheet of lined paper from the coffee table and looks at it for a moment. “We had to write about a sensitive politic issue from our own country. I hope this is alright for you to read.” 

Brendon raises a brow and takes it from Spencer’s hand. He can see at once why Spencer is asking about Brendon’s reading it. The opening line reads, _L’homosexualité est un sujet très débattu, parce que beaucoup de gens dissent qu’il est dibolique, mais les gens qui sont homosexuels dissent il est naturel_. 

Brendon refuses to let his surprise show on his face and takes a seat on the sofa, clearing his throat. Spencer sits beside him, giving him an appraising look. “It isn’t going to be a problem, right?” 

“No,” Brendon says, too quickly. “No, I mean. I don’t have a problem with…I mean, I don’t _know_ a lot of gay people, or anything. But the Church is understanding about such things.” 

Spencer raises a brow. “Really?” he asks. Brendon suddenly realises that Spencer’s trying to get some sort of reaction out of him. It should make him angry or embarrassed, but he doesn’t feel much of anything except disappointment. 

“Well. The Church thinks homosexuality is a sin, but they also believe that it is something that can be fought. Overcome, you know? So if you pray a lot, and don’t act on it, then the Church can help you,” Brendon explains. 

“And that’s what you think?” Spencer asks sharply. “That it’s an _affliction_? Like, a disease?” 

“I—” Brendon stops abruptly. He can’t believe this is happening to him a second time this evening. It feels like God’s playing some huge practical joke on him, or something. “Spencer,” he says, and feels tired. “I didn’t come up here to preach at you, or fight with you about morals. I can help you with your paper, though, okay?” 

Something passes over Spencer’s face, like regret. “Okay,” Spencer agrees. “Please. Thank you.” A frown settles between his brow and Brendon almost reaches out to smooth it away. He himself always has a frown there; he knows how it aches. 

“Do you have a pencil, or something?” Brendon asks. Spencer passes him a mechanical pencil and Brendon begins to make marks. He’s used to doing this, did it all throughout school. Everyone knew he was good at French and if he did their work for them, the jerks at school would leave him alone for the most part. 

“Hey,” Spencer interrupts after a second. He scoots closer to look over Brendon’s shoulder and Brendon pauses. “Just. I mean. Could you tell me _why_ it’s wrong? I wanna learn this stuff.” 

“Oh.” Brendon blinks a few times and scans back up the page to his first correction. “Well, with the pronominal verbs, you want the past participle to agree in gender and number with the subject. And here, in the passé, you conjugate mourir with the auxiliary verb être instead of avoir. It’s one of the Dr. Mrs. Vandertramp verbs.” 

Spencer frowns. “I’m always forgetting those,” he mutters. 

Brendon finds himself relaxing a little. Going into teaching mode is safe and comfortable. “Me too. Or well, I had a lot of trouble with them at first. Once you start using them a lot, it becomes habit, though. Plus, a lot of your grammar is really advanced for the beginner’s level.” 

“I want to learn it,” Spencer says, flushing a little in the cheeks. 

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “When I was a kid, I was really excited about learning French and Spanish. I wanted to travel all around Europe writing and performing songs and French lais. I was heartbroken when my history teacher told me troubadours weren’t around so much anymore.” 

Spencer cracks a smile, the first real one he’s ever given Brendon, and it is warm and a little stunning. “Lais, seriously?” he asks.

Brendon has to look away quickly, because the smile on Spencer’s face makes Brendon’s stomach flip, and makes him think of what Anna said. “I may have been a huge dork in high school,” Brendon says, and turns his attention back to the paper quickly. 

When Jon and Ryan stumble through the front door breathless and pink-faced from the cold, Brendon and Spencer have mostly finished proofing the paper. They’ve stopped to discuss several grammar points, but Spencer didn’t have many mistakes in the first place. 

“About time,” Spencer grumbles. Brendon notices the questioning look Ryan sends to Spencer and the answering jerk of Spencer’s head. “Dinner’s ready, as soon as you’ve got that cooked.” 

“Five minutes,” Jon promises, and disappears into the kitchen. 

“You can stay for dinner, if you’d like,” Spencer says, his tone calculated. “I made pasta.” 

Brendon’s not really hungry. Sister Fry makes amazing meals. But Brendon _is_ lonely and doesn’t really trust himself alone with his thoughts right now, so he accepts. All throughout dinner, he’s aware that Spencer and Ryan are staring at him with the same intensity as Anna had, earlier. He wonders about what it is they’re seeing. About how everything he’s tried so hard to keep safe and hidden suddenly seems to be written across his face for everyone to read. 

Jon invites him to stay later for a movie, but Brendon is tired and he isn’t sure he can stand much more scrutiny right now. Jon sees him to the door and says, “So, we’re going out to a club tomorrow night. Open mic night. It isn’t anything too crazy. Thought you might like to check it out. Just for the music. No peer pressure or any of that shit.” 

Brendon finds himself managing a genuine smile in response. “That sounds really cool, Jon, but I just can’t right now. That’s...too much, you know? I’m trying to figure some things out, about what I’m doing and I—”

“It’s cool,” Jon interrupts, putting a hand on Brendon’s shoulder. Brendon wants to relax under that touch, let Jon melt away all the stress and tension and worry and anxiety. There’s something warm in Jon’s eyes that says he’s not only able to help, but willing. 

Brendon must stare a long time, because eventually Jon’s hand tightens just a little. “You know if you need to talk about it, I’m here,” he says. “I might not know a lot about what you’re going through, but I’m happy to listen.” 

“You’re really awesome, Jon Walker,” Brendon whispers, all weary and distantly happy at the same time. “Thank you,” because he can’t accept yet, but he doesn’t want to close the door, either. 

Before going to bed he gets out his medication, dividing the capsules into two separate bottles. He can’t do this all at once. He’s not brave enough, nowhere near strong enough. But maybe he can take it step by baby step.

Ryan is actually _vibrating_. Spencer can feel it where their shoulders touch, and it’s almost enough to make _him_ nervous, which is just ridiculous. He wraps his fingers around Ryan’s wrist and gives a gentle squeeze. “We don’t have to do this if you’re not sure,” he says. 

Spencer wants to be in a band, but only in Ryan’s band, and for a long time that was his only requirement. Having Brent was nice, but not necessary. Now, for him, band has become Ryan + Jon, but this guy, Jesse—Spencer doesn’t really care if he’s their singer, or someone else. He knows Ryan will pick the best person to sing his lyrics, and Spencer trusts that. 

“No,” Ryan says. He’s staring fixedly at Jesse, singing his heart out on stage, strumming his guitar almost like it’s an afterthought. He is _good_ , Spencer acknowledges, and Jon likes him well enough. 

“No,” Ryan says again. “I think it’ll work. He’s got a good voice. He’s charismatic. Really good-looking.” He has an absent expression on his face, watching Jesse. Spencer knows he has no claim on Ryan, as anything other than best friend, but it still sparks something like jealousy in him to hear Ryan say as much. 

Spencer once thought, years ago, that it would get less difficult with time, watching Ryan fall for other people, but if anything it’s gotten harder. Particularly watching Ryan fall for Jon, and seeing Jon fall back. They haven’t acted on it, but Spencer can see very easily how Ryan might fall for Jesse, too, and how he might not be so hesitant about pursuing him. 

Jon brings Jesse to their table after he finishes and introduces everyone. Jesse _is_ really good-looking—loose blonde curls falling in blue eyes, tan skin, wide smile. “So you’re the guys who somehow charmed Jon Walker back into the music scene,” he says. 

Spencer is _curious_ about Jon’s musical background, but he refuses to push. At first he didn’t know Jon very well and didn’t want to pry where it wasn’t his business. Now it’s more a matter of pride. Spencer refuses to ask. Jon can offer to tell, or not. 

“Jon’s mentioned that you’re looking for a band,” Spencer says. There’s nothing coy about it. He’s direct and to the point, and that’s why he’s the one who handles this sort of thing for Ryan. 

“Yeah.” Jesse’s smile gets wider. 

“Well,” Spencer says, “we just so happen to be a band in need of a singer. We were wondering if you’d like to come over sometime, mess around a little bit, see how things work.” 

“A band of Jon Walker’s?” Jesse asks. Ryan tenses, and Spencer gets it. Ryan’s used to Panic! being _his_ band. For a second he worries that presumption will make Ryan call the whole thing off. But the moment passes without Jesse even noticing, Ryan relaxing again. “I’m so in.” 

Ryan smiles tightly and Jon gives Jesse a high-five. “How about sometime this weekend,” Jon offers. “I’ve got the day shift all weekend, so we could get together at night.” 

“Awesome,” Jesse says, and sounds so sincere. “I’m going to get us all shots.” 

Ryan hasn’t had anything to drink since he helped himself to Spencer’s Long Island. Admittedly that went better than Spencer had expected. There hadn’t been any guilt or drama when Ryan had sobered up. Still, he’s worried until Jesse brings the shots back and Ryan eyes his like it’s a pop quiz he hasn’t prepared for. He throws his back with the rest of them, though. 

Jesse doesn’t eye them strangely when both Spencer and Ryan refuse second shots, which, considering how everyone at school acts about their relative straight-edgedness, Spencer takes as a good sign. 

Ryan and Jesse get into a forty minute talk about guitars which is completely over Spencer’s head. He lets his attention drift away, reassured for the moment that Ryan is okay, and redirects towards Jon, who’s watching Jesse and Ryan with an absent smile. Jon catches him looking and flashes him a smile. “Come smoke with me,” he says. 

Spencer doesn’t smoke, and doesn’t even like the smell, but he goes anyway, because it’s Jon asking him. “You know,” Jon says conversationally, when they’re outside. Spencer’s come to know that tone, which means Jon’s about to say something Spencer probably doesn’t want to hear. 

“If I know it, you don’t have to say it,” Spencer says. 

Jon cracks a smile and bumps their shoulders together. “You tell me I can’t fix everyone, and you’re right. But you know, you don’t have to try to handle all the stress by yourself, either.” 

Spencer was right, he doesn’t want to hear this. Particularly from Jon, who doesn’t know the _meaning_ of the word stress. “You going to shoulder some of it for me?” he sneers. It sounds weak, even to his own ears, like instead of taunting he wants to beg Jon for his help. 

“If you let me,” Jon says, in that sincere way he has that makes Spencer want to just be close to Jon, in his arms. 

Spencer hunches his shoulders and turns away, scowling down the alley. The wind is bitingly cold, even in mid-February. Every time Spencer thinks Chicago can’t get any colder, he’s proven wrong. He’s used to February heralding the coming of spring, but all it’s bringing in Chicago is snow, freezing rain, and wind from the lake cutting through Spencer’s layers like they aren’t even there. 

“Hey,” Jon says. He flicks his cigarette away and hooks an arm around Spencer, drawing him into a half hug. “Hey, Spence, seriously. What do you think of me? I care just as much as you do. I see just as much as you do. Jesse calling Panic! my band? You think I told him that? Or that I’m not going to say something about it to him later? If Jesse hurts him, I’ll be the first one in line to kick his ass.” 

Spencer draws his coat more tightly together and doesn’t say anything. Jon sighs and his breath is warm on Spencer’s neck. “Spence.” Jon hugs him tighter and Spencer wants to relax into him, and there are so many reasons he can’t. 

Spencer’s been in love with Ryan so long that he’s learned to deal with his longing and jealousy, for the most part. It hurts, but it is a hurt he’s become inured to. These new feelings for Jon still take Spencer by surprise, still try to trick him into action. He barely trusts himself alone around Jon, most of the time. 

“I’m tired,” Spencer says and shakes himself loose from Jon’s hold. “I think I’m going to head back early.” 

Jon doesn’t try to argue him on it, but he does give Spencer a disappointed smile that Spencer has to look away from. “I’ll get Ryan home in a while. I might stay with my parents for a few nights.” 

“Fine, whatever,” Spencer says, and refuses to ask why. Ryan always gets worried when Jon spends nights at his parents’ place, or does anything to remind Ryan that Jon doesn’t actually, officially live with them. 

Spencer can’t help but feel like Jon knows it, and is punishing Ryan for Spencer’s behaviour, or something. Just another reason why Jon obviously isn’t suited to help Spencer take care of things. 

Even though he can’t really afford it, Spencer hails a cab. He can’t stand the thought of standing in the cold, waiting on the train and dealing with two transfers. The city is a blur of lights on the ride and it even _looks_ cold, and Spencer thinks he’s been Ryan’s friend too long, because he’s turning into one morose motherfucker. 

It’s just…he’s getting so tired of _waiting_ for everything. He feels as though he’s been watching Ryan and Jon dance around each other forever. For the longest time, Spencer wanted to put off the inevitable, but now it just feels like lying. 

If Jon and Ryan want each other, they should be together. Maybe it isn’t how Spencer might imagine letting Jon share his burden, but he’s pretty sure Jon would make Ryan happier. 

There’s a light on in Brendon’s apartment when Spencer gets to the building. He can see a shadow moving within from the street. He has no reason for knocking—he isn’t even sure that he likes Brendon very much. Besides, having Ryan Ross as a best friend is all the emotional crisis a person needs to deal with. 

All the same, Spencer finds himself outside Brendon’s apartment, rapping his knuckle against the door. Unbidden, an image of Brendon in his baggy pants and tight shirt comes to mind, and Spencer’s mouth goes dry at the memory of tight skin exposed, low on Brendon’s belly. _Maybe no one will answer_ , he thinks, hopes. 

Brendon opens the door and dispels the image Spencer’s conjured, dressed in better fitting sweats and a hoodie that swallows his figure. “Spencer,” he says cautiously, “what’s up?” 

“Can I come in?” Spencer asks, forcing himself not to fidget. 

Brendon swings the door open wider and steps back to let Spencer in. “Um. We don’t really have any…” he gestures around the living room and Spencer gets what he’s saying immediately. There’s no sofa, only four uncomfortable looking armchairs around a coffee table. There are no wall hangings, no television, no radio. The dining table is bare save four identical books, three stacked at one end, the other marked open. 

“Do you…I have juice and milk. And, uh, water,” Brendon says. He’s fidgeting in the threshold between kitchen and living room, looking uncertain and adorable. It takes Spencer a second to realise that Brendon doesn’t usually fidget, and then he realises that Brendon’s practically shaking, almost like Ryan. 

“Are you alright?” he asks. 

“I’m. Ah…” Brendon turns fully into the kitchen, getting down two glasses and pulling out a bottle of grape juice. “I. I’m on pills, for my ADD and stuff. You know.” He sets the bottle down and his nails tap compulsively against the countertop. “I thought maybe I could cut them back a little, you know. Because they’ve been making me tired, you know, and depressed.” 

Spencer sort of wants to put a hand on Brendon’s shoulder and try to hold him still, or something. “How do you feel?” he asks instead. 

“Oh.” Brendon pauses. “I don’t know. It’s only been a couple days, but I think maybe I cut back too much, or. I don’t know. I’ve got lots more energy, but I thought it would be easier to think without the meds, only now it seems harder, and I can’t focus on my reading, and I feel really restless.” He takes a big gulp of his juice and fills it up again. 

“I just think they’ve been wearing off more quickly,” Brendon says. “I’ll figure it out. Anyway. What’s up? Did you need more help with your French?” 

“No.” Spencer isn’t even entirely sure what he’s doing here, but he hears himself speaking, entirely without his permission. “I saw your light on, and I just wanted to say I’m sorry about the other night. Coming down here to ask for your help then giving you shit about the whole Mormon view on gays. That was a dick move.” 

“Nah,” Brendon says. “It’s alright.” He’s so much more relaxed and casual than Spencer’s ever seen him, in spite of his new jittery energy. It’s sort of fascinating to see. “I mean, I wasn’t entirely honest with you, anyway. I don’t agree with what the Church says about it. I don’t think that homosexuals are bad, or anything. I think they have as much a right to love who they want as anyone else.” 

“I don’t think it’s a curse. Unless, I mean, you’re a gay Mormon, in which case I guess it is like a curse, because it isn’t like you could ever do anything about it.” Brendon shrugs, and Spencer gets a sudden flash of insight that makes Brendon make a lot more sense. Spencer’s chest hurts thinking about it. Maybe this was what Jon saw. Maybe this was why he wanted to invite Brendon over. Spencer feels like a dick all over again. 

“Well, it was still shitty of me to do,” Spencer says. “I’m sorry if I made you feel unwelcome, but you know, what Jon said. You’re welcome to come up whenever. I mean, even when I don’t need help with French. You don’t need an excuse.” 

Brendon smiles, and Spencer thinks it’s the first time he’s ever seen Brendon smile for real—happy and earnest, and he looks younger and suddenly alive with it. Something about it makes Spencer vaguely embarrassed and he clears his throat. “Anyway. It’s late. I should get going. I just wanted to let you know.” 

“Thank you,” Brendon says, and his grin doesn’t dim in the least. Spencer can’t get the image out if out of his head the rest of the evening, and it makes him uneasy. 

Spencer lies awake in bed trying to understand what it must be like to be Brendon. His family was never overly religious. He went to church when he was a kid, and when he decided, at twelve, that he didn’t want to go anymore, no one made him. No one really cared. 

He can’t imagine what it must be like to live a life that’s been planned for you every step of the way—going on a mission where you’re told, going to the school your religion says, picking the career that your family says suits you. He doesn’t even want to imagine what it must be like for a gay man in that life, marrying a woman as the only way to be ‘saved.’ 

It all makes him sick to his stomach to think about it, especially when he thinks about how Brendon seemed tonight. It must be bad enough, being brainwashed into thinking that it’s the life you want. But knowing that you want something different for yourself and feeling you have no choice? Spencer’s parents have always been supportive of him.

The front door opens and closes, and a few minutes later a strip of light spills into his room as Ryan slips in the door. “Hey,” Ryan whispers. 

“I’m up,” Spencer says. Ryan shuffles across the floor and Spencer lifts his covers so Ryan can crawl between them. He cuddles close in just his boxers, skin still cold from the outside. Spencer shivers and curls closer. “Hey,” he says in greeting. 

“Hey,” Ryan says. His voice is bright but hushed. 

“What’s up?” 

“I think Jesse might work,” Ryan says. “He’s…I think he might work, Spence.” He sounds excited, though tempered, as ever, with doubt. He doesn’t, Spencer is relieved to note, sound smitten. “We’ll have to try him out, first. But I think he’s good.” 

“Good,” Spencer echoes and kisses Ryan’s hair. Ryan’s fingers curl against Spencer’s chest, and the touch is nice, familiar, and Spencer’s had years of experience to keep his body from reacting how it would like to in response. He lets thoughts of Ryan distract him from thoughts of Brendon, and then it’s much easier to fall asleep. 

Jesse fits pretty well, Jon thinks, even after only a few hours. Ryan hasn’t shown him any of his stuff yet, but Jon figures that will take a while. Ryan also hasn’t gotten that tight, unhappy look around his mouth even _once_ since Jesse showed up, which he usually gets within the first ten minutes of an audition. 

Jesse’s voice is good. It isn’t William Beckett good, and it’s safe to say it doesn’t approach Patrick, but he stays on pitch and in key, and his voice is clear and strong. He’s also happy jumping from genre to genre so Ryan can hear how he handles different sounds. Jesse would probably be cool singing just about anything that wasn’t country music, Jon can guess, from the various bands Jesse’s been a part of over the years. 

They take a break after three hours, sitting around in the living room, Jesse strumming idly at his guitar. “When are your boys getting back?” he asks Jon absently. He totally misses the look Spencer and Ryan share, but Jon doesn’t. 

“These are my boys, now,” Jon says easily, and then adds, “but Tom said something about next week.” 

“Coooool,” Jesse says emphatically. “Party?” 

“Do you forget who are you talking about?” Jon asks, his tone wry. 

“Fair enough,” Jesse says. “It’ll be good to see him and everyone else. Man, I’ve missed Joe’s shit.” 

Ryan’s got that cool assessing look he gets sometimes, when he’s pissed that someone knows something he doesn’t, and he plans on figuring it out. The thing is, Jon’s gone so long without telling them that he knows he’s in deep shit now, either way. 

Whether he tells them himself or they figure it out on their own, Ryan and Spencer aren’t going to be happy. Somewhere between the time when their acquaintance was too casual to bring it up, and now, there was some point, a moment when he could have said something, but it’s long since passed. 

A knock on the door saves Jon from this particular moment. Spencer, the only one without an instrument in his lap, goes to get it and has a smile for Brendon when he answers, which makes Jon wonder. 

“Hey. Blossom’s party somehow spread to my place. I was wondering if I could hang out?” Brendon asks. He has a hesitant, hopeful look on his face and he looks like he hasn’t been sleeping well—his skin is pale and there are deep circles under his eyes. 

“Well, we were practicing,” Spencer says, and casts a look at Ryan. 

“Oh.” Brendon fidgets with the hem of his shirt and shuffles back a few steps. “Sorry to interrupt.” 

“No, it’s okay,” Ryan says quickly. “You could hang out if you want. We probably won’t be good company, though.” 

“It’s okay. I just don’t want to be down there right now,” Brendon says, bouncing a little in place. 

Brendon is quiet while they practice, sipping slowly on the hot chocolate Jon made him and watching. He’s not as still as usual, fingers twitching at his side as they play, like his fingers want an instrument in them. Jon doesn’t want to be pushy when Brendon’s having a crisis, or whatever, but he wonders if he should offer to let Brendon play sometime. 

Things wind down close to midnight, when Jesse’s girlfriend texts him to come over and he makes his goodbyes. Ryan mutters something about being inspired and disappears into his bedroom. Spencer goes off to shower, and Jon’s left with Brendon who’s studying his toes like they hold the answers to the universe. 

“Hey,” Jon says gently, and nudges his shoulder. “Wanna talk?” 

“I don’t know,” Brendon says. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“You stop taking your meds?” Jon asks. 

Brendon laughs, a dry, painful sound. “Is it that obvious? But. No. Not entirely. Just cut back.” 

“That’s…good,” Jon says cautiously. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Brendon says. He fiddles with his toes, wiggling them, pulling his big toe between his fingers. Jon is reminded of his little cousin and he wants to put an arm around Brendon, but doesn’t know what’s allowed. 

“I thought it would be easier to sleep, and maybe I wouldn’t be so sad all the time. And…I guess it’s better. I mean, I fall asleep easier, but I can’t stay asleep,” Brendon admits. “I feel like I have all this extra energy. I’m not sad like I was, but I’m not any happier, either, I don’t think.” 

“You wanna come to my room?” Jon offers. “I’ve got a keyboard. We could play a little. Maybe that would help you relax, like when you were a kid.” 

Brendon looks up at him, face caught in a expression between startled and hesitantly please. “You remembered me saying that?” 

“Come on,” Jon says, smiling wider. He stands and holds out a hand and Brendon takes it, letting himself be led down the hall. 

Jon’s room is actually the study and the futon is a little lumpy, but he can’t complain since he isn’t paying rent and because it allows him to spend plenty of time around Spencer and Ryan. Anyway, he’s got big plans regarding Spencer’s queen-sized mattress. 

The study is actually more like a music room, since Ryan moved the writing desk into his bedroom and Jon brought over his keyboard and bass and rhythm guitars. Spencer’s kit is kept in the living room since it’s the only room big enough, but when they’re all working on new stuff, they inevitably find their way into the study. 

Brendon sees the keyboard and it’s like he’s drawn to it, crossing the room to sit at the bench. His fingers aren’t long like Ryan’s, but they look elegant as they move over the keys. There’s something sensual about it, the way Brendon strokes the keys like the skin of a long lost lover. Other than his hands, his body remains still, a look of concentration on his face. 

Even without the power on, Jon imagines he can hear the melody Brendon is playing. Something haunting and beautiful, echoed in the expression on Brendon’s face. It makes Jon’s mouth go dry to watch. He leans across the keyboard to turn the power on and mid-note the piece comes to life, pouring from the speakers. The volume is low, but the piece loses nothing for it. 

Jon sits on the futon, watching and waiting while Brendon finishes one song and segues into the next seamlessly. The change is noticeable, after several minutes. Brendon’s shoulders relax a little—it isn’t that his posture becomes worse, but the tension bleeds from him until it doesn’t hurt just to look at the straight line of his back. 

The curve of Brendon’s neck into his shoulder would fit Jon’s hand perfectly, he thinks. Jon wonders idly the last time anyone touched Brendon, in anyway than the little, casual ways that happen everyday. When was the last time someone hugged him or stroked his hair, or kissed him? 

After a while, Brendon runs out of things to play and his fingers begin to move randomly across the keys, slow and plodding. Jon rolls his head to look at the clock from where he’s slid down into a reclining position on the futon. He has to blink and sit up when he sees that over an hour has passed. 

Jon stands and goes to the keyboard and Brendon scoots over to make room for him. He shoots Jon a purely happy, easy smile when Jon starts up “Heart and Soul.” After a second Brendon finds the right place and begins to play along. 

“Now I’ll know who to come to when Panic! needs a pianist,” Jon says. 

“Panic? Is that the name of your band?” Brendon asks, arching a curious brow. Seeing his face all lit up with expression again is such a relief, really. 

“Panic! at the Disco,” Jon explains. “With an exclamation point, after Panic. I don’t get it. You’d have to ask Ryan.” 

Brendon chuckles. “I think it adds character,” he says. “I can just imagine trying to explain to my parents that I’m playing piano for a rock band called Panic! at the Disco.” Just like that his face crumples. 

For a moment, Jon’s worried Brendon’s going to start crying. But Brendon just takes a deep breath and lets it out. His head drops onto Jon’s shoulder and that gives Jon the right incentive. He slides an arm around Brendon’s back, hugging him lightly, loose enough that Brendon could break away. 

“Wanna talk?” Jon asks. He can’t stop his hand caressing up and down Brendon’s arm, but Brendon doesn’t pull back. If anything, he presses closer, however subtly, his face turning slightly into Jon’s neck so Jon can feel his breath. 

“Not about them. Not about…” Brendon takes another shuddery breath. He shakes his head. “You know, I was almost in a band once?” 

“Yeah?” Jon asks encouragingly. 

“There was this guy in school. In band. He said some friends were looking for someone to play guitar, sing backup. I was. It was before I started on the meds, and I wasn’t very happy at home or at church or at school. I really loved music, you know, so I was like, well, even if it makes my parents unhappy, it might be the one place where I could fit in.” 

“So what happened?” Jon asks. He lays his head over Brendon’s slowly, waiting for any sign that Brendon doesn’t want the touch, but Brendon doesn’t resist. 

“I don’t know. The guy…He said something about coming to practice and hanging out, seeing if I fit, or whatever,” Brendon says, and Jon can hear the frown in his voice. “Then whenever I asked when I should come, he’d change the subject or have somewhere to be, and eventually I stopped pushing it. Then I went on the meds and I guess I didn’t care as much about that, anymore. 

“Sometimes I wonder though. I mean, it was just some shitty—I mean…I mean _crappy_ —” Brendon begins, but Jon cuts him off. 

“You can say ‘shitty’ around me, Brendon,” he says. 

Jon can practically feel the smile Brendon gives him at that. “Fine. Shitty. But. It was probably just some shitty band, you know? I mean, how many high school bands ever go anywhere, what are the odds? But I still can’t help wondering how things might have been different, if I’d joined them. Like. That was a bad time for me, and what if I _had_ found a place where I fit in? Where would I be now?” 

Brendon snorts into the following silence. “Stupid. I’d probably be in the exact same place.” 

“I don’t think it’s stupid,” Jon interrupts. 

“Jon Walker,” Brendon says thickly, “where the hell were you when I was in high school?” 

Jon laughs and it sounds weak to his own ears. He hugs Brendon tighter and something loosens in him—something he hadn’t even realised was tight—when Brendon loops both arms around Jon’s waist and hugs him back, tight and desperate. He can tell Brendon doesn’t want to talk anymore, so he lets Brendon cling as long as he wants, and when his embrace begins to loosen, Jon pulls back. 

“Let’s watch Harry Potter on my laptop and eat all of Spencer’s Rocky Road,” Jon suggests. 

“That’s not cool. Spencer’s nice,” Brendon laughs and protests. He wipes his sleeves over his cheeks, even though they’re not wet. Jon is really relieved that tears aren’t involved. He’s bad at dealing with that. 

“That’s why he’ll forgive us,” Jon says, getting up. 

Jon raids the freezer for the ice cream and the fridge for milk and grabs two spoons on his way out of the kitchen. Brendon’s moved to the futon in his absence, all curled up close to the wall, knees to his chest, looking tiny and vulnerable. Jon gets the DVD set up and puts the computer on the piano bench, dragging it close so they can see and hear. He hits the lights and climbs onto the futon, not too close. 

“Hey Jon,” Brendon says, as the previews start. His hand reaches out in the dark, fumbling, clutching Jon’s sleeve. “Thanks.” 

Jon slings his arm across Brendon’s shoulders and Brendon melts into his side. Jon pulls the comforter over them both, and settles in. It’s not even twenty minutes into the film before Brendon’s breathing has evened out with sleep. Jon takes off his glasses for him and folds them on the night stand before lying back down at Brendon’s side. It isn’t long before Jon follows him into sleep. 

Ryan wakes up around eleven, still vaguely tired, but not enough to keep him in bed. Spencer is already awake, and pops his head out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand, when Ryan walks by. “Pancakes?” Ryan asks, and Spencer gives him the thumbs up. 

Jon’s door is closed, which is strange, because he doesn’t usually bother. Ryan turns the knob and pushes in, question on his lips. He stops before he can voice it. Jon is spooned up against Brendon’s back, arm snug around Brendon’s hips. They look comfortable, peacefully asleep, and Ryan makes a point of slamming the door on his way out. 

Spencer follows him into the kitchen a few minutes later, just as Ryan is lining up the ingredients by the stove. “What’s up with the door slamming?” 

The shower starts running and all Ryan can think is _they had better not be in there together_. Which, okay, he _knows_ is irrational, because they both had their clothes on and besides, Jon’s into _Spencer_ , right? 

Jon stumbles blearily into the kitchen and Ryan can see the gears working in Spencer’s head. “Make enough for Brendon?” Jon asks, like it’s nothing. 

Spencer eyes them both warily and Ryan gives a tight nod. “How’s he doing?” Spencer asks. He doesn’t look or sound upset. If anything, he sounds actually _concerned_. 

“Working through a lot of shit, you know?” Jon says. “I mean, I don’t understand most of it. He didn’t really want to talk about it very much. I think he just needs someone who doesn’t expect anything of him.” 

Ryan can’t stop himself from snorting. Granted, he doesn’t try very hard. Jon and Spencer ignore him, which sets his teeth on edge. He applies himself to the task at hand, pouring the batter into the pan, watching the air bubbles form around the edges. 

Brendon comes in just as the first batch is ready and Ryan decides that he’s the least to blame, and lays the plate in front of him. Brendon looks up at Ryan in delight, water catching at the tips of his hair and Ryan thinks, _didn’t anyone teach him how to properly dry himself off_ , and then has to resist the urge to push his fingers back through Brendon’s hair. 

“Thanks,” Brendon says, and digs in, making noises of pleasure. 

Ryan goes back to his skillet and his good humour disappears at once. Fucking Jon Walker, all sweet and unassuming and apparently, a _player_. He’d never thought, for one minute, that Jon would pick someone _else_. 

The second batch gets burnt and he lays those at Jon’s place. Jon arches a brow and Ryan gives him a look that dares him to say something. Instead, Jon slathers the plate in syrup and begins eating with apparent relish. Ryan gives him a sickly sweet smile and Jon’s is just as fake in return. 

Brendon leaves after breakfast and Ryan feels a little guilty about it, because how is _Brendon_ supposed to know that Jon is an asshole? He can’t say he blames Brendon, either; the tension in the air is thick enough to cut with a knife. 

All day Jon stays in his room. Spencer, after several attempts at conversation with Ryan, gives up and spends the majority of the afternoon with Jon. Every time Ryan passes the door he hears the soft murmur of conversation, but nothing he can understand from the hallway. 

There’s a restless sort of energy humming under Ryan’s skin that makes him feel like he’s back in high school—that helpless desire to do something to be noticed. Sometimes Ryan forgets how old he is; it seems so much longer than two years ago that he was finishing high school. Without his father breathing disappointment down his neck, Ryan has felt older, independent. He hates being reduced to this feeling again, but he gives into it. 

When Spencer comes to knock on his door around eight, Ryan’s nearly finished perfecting his look. Even out of practice it wasn’t difficult to recreate the style he’d adopted his first year out of high school. All around his eyes are the colours of the setting sun, bleeding into night, with stars tumbling down his cheek. 

“Hey,” Spencer says cautiously, hip propped against the door frame. Ryan allows his eyes to follow the curve of it in the mirror, where Spencer can’t see. What if they’d never moved here and never met Jon Walker, would Ryan be allowed to look openly? “What’s up?” 

“I felt like going out,” Ryan says, filling in his lashes with mascara. 

Spencer doesn’t comment, and when Ryan looks up again, he’s gone from the doorway. There’s more of that fucking murmuring in the hallway and by the time Ryan finishes getting ready, Jon and Spencer are waiting in the living room, dressed for clubbing too, though more hastily put together. 

“We want to go, too,” Spencer says. He gets up, lacing his fingers through Ryan’s, eyes daring Ryan to fight him on it. 

Ryan shrugs. “Fine. Jon would know better where to go, anyway.” 

Jon gives him a searching look and Ryan has been friends with him long enough to know that look often prefaces some well meant interference. But instead, Jon just sighs and says, “I think I know a place you’d like. It’s pretty mellow, even on Friday nights, but the djs are good and they have an awesome dance floor.” 

Ryan nods, not meeting Jon’s gaze. “Sounds good to me.” 

Spencer lets go of his hand long enough for them to get their jackets on and then he grabs it again and Jon gets his other side. It takes all of Ryan’s will power not to jerk away from them, but he’s not going to give them the satisfaction. 

The bar, the _Lapin Agile_ , really is Ryan’s sort of place. It’s just pretentious enough to appeal to his sense of irony, but not so much to be annoying. From the outside, it looks like something out of turn of the century France, the door tucked away down a small alley, light warm and golden spilling from the windows. 

Indoors the music is good, but not so loud as to discourage conversation. Jon secures them a table close to the dance floor and goes to get them drinks, and Ryan disappears onto the dance floor before he gets back. 

It’s been so long since Ryan’s gone dancing. Since before he and Spence moved to Chicago, at least. It’s still early, but there are a couple hot scene kids who move close when Ryan starts to dance, and it’s nice, losing himself in the music, knowing that there are people watching him and wanting him. 

He makes his way back to the table a few times, taking sips of the soda Jon got him, before diving back into the dance floor. On his fifth time back, shirt plastered to his chest from other people’s sweat, he notices how much the place has started to fill up. He has to push through several groups to make his way to the table and there’s a line visible through the open door. As he passes, a pleasantly chilly breeze cools his flushed skin. 

Jon’s chatting with some skinny, blonde girl and Spencer is being flirted with, very obviously, by her brunette friend. Ryan refuses to be jealous of it, insinuating himself close to the table. Spencer flicks him a look and pushes a glass of soda across the table and Ryan is pleased to note, when he takes a sip, that there is no alcohol in it. 

“Hey, Ry,” Jon says cheerfully, cheeks flushed red, whether from alcohol or happiness, or the heat, Ryan can’t say. “This is Mellissa and Selene.” He gestures to the brunette and blonde in turn. Ryan pointedly doesn’t notice the way Mellissa is clinging to Spencer’s arm. 

“Jonathan Walker!” a voice calls, and Ryan looks around along with the others, trying to find the source. A scruffy looking blond guy who shares, Ryan notes, Jon’s proclivity for wearing flipflops in the dead of winter, bursts through the crowd to throw an arm around Jon’s shoulders. 

Jon lets out a delighted laugh and pulls the guy into a bear hug and, well. Ryan knows Jon doesn’t worry about the usual things guys do, about hugging, when it comes to Ryan and Spencer. Still, it’s disconcerting to see him hugging another guy like that. 

“Hey!” new guy says, face all lit up with excitement. Jon’s usually mellow happy, not this bright, effusive happy, like glowing. Ryan feels something rising in his stomach, making him feel sick. “I didn’t think you were getting back until Monday.” 

The guy waves a hand. “That’s what Adam said. But what I didn’t know was that rather than asking Tony, Adam just picked a random day of the week when asked the question ‘hey, you know when we get home?’” 

“Guys,” Jon says, turning back to them. “Guys, this is my best friend in the whole world, Tom.” Ryan feels his smile freeze on his face, brittle and tight, at the words. “Tom, this is Spencer and Ryan.” 

Tom smiles at them warmly and there’s something vaguely familiar about him that tickles the back of Ryan’s mind. Tom offers Spencer his hand, then it’s Ryan’s turn. His body sort of moves without his permission. He thinks Tom can probably read Ryan’s mood by the tension in his arm. Ryan hates everyone right now. “I’ve heard so much about you guys,” Tom says. 

Spencer looks at Jon with a bemused smile. “Really?” he asks. Ryan’s glad one of them is still capable of speech that hasn’t been reduced to four letter words and derivatives thereof. 

Jon blushes, but Tom speaks before he can. “Heard you’re the ones who finally got him back in a band,” he says. “You must be really good.” 

Ryan was curious enough when Jesse said it, but now he’s burning to know what the big deal is about Jon being in a band, and why everyone seems to know about it except his actual _band_. 

“You’ll hear soon enough,” Jon says. “We got ourselves a singer, I think it’s gonna work out. Probably be ready to start doing a few gigs in a month or so.” 

Ryan’s about ready to open his mouth to protest, just because he can, because where does Jon get off thinking he can say that he thinks Jesse’s going to work out when they haven’t even rehearsed any of their material with him, and who said anything about gigs next month, anyway? 

Ryan’s got a million bitter, pissy things to open with, and they all die, unspoken, when Pete Wentz comes up and slings his arm around Jon’s waist and says, “Did I hear that you’re actually going to _play_ something with your new band? Where I can _hear_ it?” 

Jon flushes even darker and shoots Ryan an indecipherable look. Ryan’s heart is beating so loudly he can barely hear over it, and the rushing sound in his ears reminds him of the one time he passed out, back in eighth grade gym class. He grabs the edge of the table and stares because _what. The. Fuck?_

“Pete,” Jon says, still looking at Ryan. “What the hell are you doing here?” 

Pete _fucking Wentz_ grins all big and horse-like, and that urge Ryan has sometimes, to punch him? Has never been stronger. He squeezes tighter at the table edge and feels Spencer move closer, his body warm all along Ryan’s side. 

“Joe picked the venue, this evening,” Pete says, and lays his head on Jon’s shoulder, like that’s somehow allowed. Jon doesn’t shrug him off. In fact, he pats Pete’s head absently. 

“No one even told me you guys were back in town,” Jon says. 

“We wanted to surprise you, Jonny Walker,” Pete says enthusiastically, and Tom nods his head. “We called your mom and made her promise not to tell, and then what do we find but that you’ve practically _moved_ out. To live in sin with your deliciously hot scene boys.” Pete shrugs. “She gave us the address.” 

“Me,” Tom interrupts, glaring playfully at Pete. “Like she’d trust you with that information.” He rolls his eyes. 

“Anyway,” Pete says, “we were gonna throw you an impromptu party tomorrow.” 

“Bill made a banner,” Tom says. 

“You were going to throw me an impromptu party at my own apartment?” Jon asks, arching a brow. 

“Still are, dude,” Tom says. “Bill made a _banner_. You can’t let something like that go to waste.” 

“Damn straight!” Ryan looks around, and it’s fucking _William Beckett_ , which he really should have put together, and he guesses if you gave Tom a shower and pushed his hair out of his face, yes…

William Beckett comes with an entourage and a distracted, confused looking Patrick Stump under his arm and there’s lots of hugging and squealing that goes on, Jon passed around like a doll from person to person. All the while, Jon dodges desperate looks at Ryan. 

Seriously, Ryan is past the getting sick and wanting to pass out stage, and he’s so past the wanting to punch Pete Wentz phase. He’s pretty much moved onto the mass homicide part of the evening. 

“So,” Pete says, when everyone’s hugged Jon, some of them two or three times each. “Speaking of deliciously hot scene boys…” his gaze roves over Spencer and Ryan, pausing when he meets Ryan’s eyes and something like recognition passes over his face. He smiles just slightly, and Ryan feels like he’s being mocked. 

“Right,” Jon says, and ducks out from under several arms to get to Ryan and Spencer. “Ryan and Spencer.” 

“And when am I going to get you on my label?” Pete asks. 

Ryan goes completely tense, he feels like his skin is going to burst apart. Jon can’t miss it, standing close by his side. “Working on it,” Jon says. 

“I have to. I have to go,” Ryan says, and pushes Spencer and Jon away, moving through the crowd of rock stars trying really hard not to touch or look at any of them. 

Spencer catches up with him on the street, hand clasping Ryan’s wrist. Ryan tries to shake him off. “I don’t wanna talk about this right now,” Ryan says. 

“Ryan,” Spencer says, tone warning. 

“What? Spence, what?” Ryan spins on his heel, pinning Spencer with the full force of his glare. 

Spencer drops his wrist. He shakes his head. “I mean, there’s got to be a reason he didn’t tell us.” 

“Tell us? That he’s apparently BFF with the entire Fueled by Ramen label?” Ryan demands. 

“Ryan, it’s _Jon_. There’s a good reason. I know there is.” Spencer isn’t big on sentimentality, but he’s got the most earnest, believing expression on his face. 

“Well, you can go listen to it then. Because I don’t care,” Ryan says. Spencer looks torn, so Ryan makes up his mind for him. “I want to be alone right now, Spence.” 

Spencer takes a step back. “Look. I’ll talk to him, okay.” 

“Whatever makes you feel better,” Ryan says. He hurries down the street before Spencer changes his mind and decides to follow anyway. 

The restless energy from earlier is back. Or it never went away, he was only distracted for a while. He walks all the way home. It isn’t very far and the cold makes him feel more alive and vital. 

For the first ten minutes, he refuses to think about it. His mind keeps trying to come up with excuses for Jon, reasons why he wouldn’t say anything, but he keeps shutting it up, shoving it away. His phone starts buzzing and he turns it off without checking the display. 

He’s gone past furious to this place of cool rationality where he’s decided he’s simply never going to speak to Jon Walker again. He’s been stupid, he can see that, let Jon charm him, charm Spencer and now he gets to see what Jon’s really about—first with Brendon and now this. 

Ryan can’t think of a single reason why Jon _wouldn’t_ have told them about Pete. He can imagine now, when Jon first saw Ryan’s notebook, when Ryan finally trusted Jon and himself enough to hand it over, and Jon saw that email from Pete…did he call Pete up? Did they have a laugh about it? 

Even as he thinks these things, some small, rational part of his mind is telling him how ridiculous it all is. Why would Jon waste his time with them just for a joke? He was still calling Ryan and Spencer his band, still talking about playing with them. Pete hadn’t seemed to know anything about Panic!, insinuated that he’d never heard any of their music. 

It doesn’t make any sense that Jon both wouldn’t tell Ryan about Pete and wouldn’t tell Pete about Panic!, though, and Ryan doesn’t want to listen to rationality. He wants, he thinks, climbing the front steps of the building, to hurt Jon like Jon’s hurt him. Jon _knows_ that Ryan doesn’t give his trust easily…

There isn’t a lot of thought that goes into it. Ryan wonders what he could do to strike back, and though a small voice, rather like Spencer’s, warns him he’ll regret it, the nearest, easiest thing Ryan can think of is Brendon. He recognised the warmth in Jon’s eyes when he watched Brendon, saw the tenderness in the way he held Brendon close. 

Before he really has time to process it, or to acknowledge his Spencer voice, he’s standing at Brendon’s door, fist poised to knock. 

Brendon’s parents call him in the afternoon to tell him about his sister’s new baby, and they can immediately tell that something is different about him. He hasn’t taken his meds, having spent the night at Jon’s and he’s feeling jittery and anxious over the way Ryan was acting. It only takes a little prodding on the part of his parents before he confesses that he’s stopped taking his full prescription. 

His father gets angry and his mother gets upset, and it hurts Brendon to hear them like this. A low, throbbing headache starts at the base of his skull and works its way up throughout the entire conversation. 

“I just. I didn’t feel like myself anymore,” he tells them, hoping they understand. “I’m not sure that all of this is what I want.” 

“What do you mean, all of this?” his father asks. 

Brendon knows there’s a line and he’s standing right on top of it, and he can’t cross it. He can’t. He’s the same coward he was two years ago, and messing around with his dosage isn’t going to change that. He swallows hard, and every word tastes as bitter as vomit on his tongue as he speaks. 

“The medication was making me feel sick. I understand why I had to go on it when I was younger, but I was reading with Elder Mathis the other day and we were discussing free will, and I thought, maybe I’m stronger now. Maybe I don’t need the medication to keep myself in line.” 

It’s a weak argument to his own ears, but his mother starts making hesitant noises about how she never thought the medication was a very good idea. His father is less impressed, but he gives Brendon his permission to continue. “However,” he says, before they hang up, “the next time we call, if we hear any sign that this isn’t working how you planned, I expect you to go back to your full dosage.” 

None of Brendon’s companions say anything about his absence, and he wonders if they even noticed. Elder Link says he’s going out of town with some friends and can Brendon make excuses for him at church tomorrow. Brendon’s gotten pretty good at that. 

Brendon meant to spend his day studying and spreading the word, but the truth of the matter is, it’s been over a week since anyone actually listened to him. Pretty much every call he’s made has ended up with a door slammed in his face. Brendon can’t help but think that those people can see right through him, see his own doubts about what he’s saying. Just like Anna did. 

Rather than doing anything productive, anything his parents or the Church would approve of, he goes to the library and uses the internet to look up stories about Mormons doubting their faith. 

Five hours pass and Brendon’s head is spinning from all the things he’s read. The way his parents and his counsellor spoke, Brendon had always thought he was some sort of freak for feeling the way he did. The way his teachers at church spoke, he thought there was no one else who’d asked the same questions he had. 

Online he finds dozens upon dozens of stories like his own—even if the circumstances were different, the things they say ring true to Brendon. He supposes he should find it reassuring, that he’s not the only one. 

But all of them end the same way—with the author leaving the Church, and in doing so, losing family members who kept the faith, losing friends and jobs and the entire social network, the entire community around which their lives had been built. 

The apartment building is strangely silent for a Saturday night, when Brendon arrives home. Everyone must be out partying, he figures. All of his companions are gone and Brendon is left on his own in the quiet and he feels like he’s slowly going mad. He wants to go upstairs but from the street he could see the lights were out in Jon’s apartment. 

Different scenarios are playing over and over in his mind. They all start the same way, with him telling his parents that he doesn’t want to finish his mission and he wants to go to a different college, and study music. 

The scenarios are all different from that point—some ending with him living on the streets, some with him taken to the special Mormon hospital for therapy, some with him married off to some girl he can’t stand—none of them end well. 

His thoughts are interrupted by a knock on the door and he jerks, noticing that the room has gone dark around him. The only light is the one in the hall and the clock on the wall by the kitchen reads a quarter ‘til eleven. 

It’s Ryan, and Brendon had known before, on his medication, that he was attracted to Ryan, but without it in his system the attraction hits him so much harder, makes him feel weak in his knees. Because Ryan’s _beautiful_ , even with rainbow make-up streaking down his cheeks and his hair a messy tangle of half-formed curls. 

“Can I come in?” Ryan asks, but he doesn’t wait for an answer, pressing close to Brendon to squeeze through the opening in the door. 

There’s something different about him, beyond the make-up and the clubbing clothes. Brendon hasn’t known Ryan all that long, true, but the Ryan he has observed up to this point has a strange stillness about him. This Ryan is thrumming with energy, bouncing in place with it. He is, Brendon realises, the physical representation of how Brendon _feels_. 

“Are you okay?” Brendon asks. 

Ryan blinks at him and shakes his head. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Brendon whispers. He doesn’t know why. There’s no one to hear, but he feels like he should keep quiet. 

Ryan pushes his hair out of his face and bites his lip. “No,” he says, and surges forward. Brendon catches him out of reflex and his back hits up against the door before Ryan’s kissing him. 

Brendon kissed a girl once. Abigail Henderson, in 10th grade, during lunch. He’d done it because he was miserable and he hated himself and everything about his life and he couldn’t think of anything else he could do to break the rules. He’d done it because he’d thought, even if he didn’t like her, even if it wasn’t any good, maybe he’d feel something. At the time, all he’d felt was Abigail’s braces and her chapped lips. 

Ryan’s lips are impossibly soft as they move against Brendon’s, and taste like some kind of berry lipgloss. Brendon can feel the press of Ryan’s bony hips against his stomach and the slide of Ryan’s mouth as it opens, hot and wet. It’s like some chain reaction. He has no control over it and he doesn’t want any—if he had control, he’d put an end to this, and he doesn’t want this to end. 

Brendon parts his mouth, opening for Ryan, and he feels clumsy and awkward, tongue sliding against Ryan’s. Ryan doesn’t complain; he shifts his hips and works a leg between Brendon’s, heel up, knee pressed tight against Brendon’s groin and Brendon can’t stop the high-pitched sound of mixed pleasure and surprise that causes. His head is spinning and he has to grab Ryan’s waist and hold on, but that doesn’t seem to help. 

“Where’s your room?” Ryan murmurs, the question another kiss against the corner of Brendon’s mouth. 

There’s this moment where Brendon can say that everything before was a mistake, was Ryan forcing something on him. But from this point on, Brendon is a willing participant. 

Ryan’s fingers tangle in Brendon’s and his mouth is swollen and red, and looks tender. Brendon’s already made the choice anyway. He doesn’t know why this is happening, but Ryan is beautiful and Brendon’s willpower is shot. 

Brendon leads him down the hall and Ryan locks the door behind them. There’s a thrill of nerves and disbelief that run up and down Brendon’s spine. “I’ve…I’ve never,” he tries to say and Ryan steps closer and kisses him again, harder. His hand feels big on Brendon’s back, strong and possessive. 

Brendon doesn’t put up a fight when Ryan tugs on his shirt, raising his arms to help Ryan get it off. “I know,” Ryan says, when they part. He sheds his own shirt in a matter of seconds and Brendon drinks in the sight of him. He’s seen plenty of attractive guys, but he’s never been given this permission to look, and Ryan is certainly one of the most attractive people Brendon’s ever seen. He looks fragile and dangerous all at once, delicate skin and sharp angles. 

“Take off your pants,” Ryan says, undoing his own belt, and Brendon’s distracted by watching for a moment. Ryan’s fingers are so long and watching them unbuttoning and unzipping his pants is decidedly erotic. But once he starts to push down, baring more skin, Brendon looks quickly away, stripping out of his pants and underwear all together. 

“Which one’s your bed?” Ryan asks. Brendon steps nervously towards the bed on the far left, holding his hands over himself. “Do you have any lube?” 

Brendon almost says no, but just because he doesn’t touch himself doesn’t mean the other guys don’t. In fact, he’s heard them talking about it with each other, and had to leave he was so embarrassed and inexplicably turned on. He fumbles in the night stand and only feels mildly bad about taking Elder Mathis’ things as he passes the small bottle into Ryan’s hand. 

Ryan looks at where their fingers touch and puts a hand under Brendon’s chin, drawing him into another kiss. It’s softer, easier. Brendon finally feels like he’s getting the hang of it, and the brush of Ryan’s tongue against the top of his mouth makes Brendon’s knees feel weak. He feels bold enough to press back a little, pushing into Ryan’s mouth and Ryan lets him, retreating and inviting. 

“Lie down,” Ryan whispers and Brendon realises he’s stopped trying to hide his body, and doesn’t feel the need any more. He pushes himself up the bed, resting on his elbows and watching. 

Ryan leans over Brendon, palms on either side of Brendon’s hips, and he lowers his head. Brendon holds his breath, stomach twitching in excitement or anxiety. Ryan kisses his stomach, just beneath his belly button, kisses his hipbone. His shoulder just brushes the head of Brendon’s cock and Brendon stifles a whimper but can’t stop his hips from jumping. Ryan smiles and that’s all the warning Brendon gets before Ryan’s lips are wrapped around his cock. 

It’s all just a blur of sensation from there. Brendon keeps trying to tell himself to slow down and take it all in. It’s his first time and that’s supposed to mean something. But he’s feeling and seeing and hearing too many things to process them all properly. Ryan’s mouth is warm and when he sucks, Brendon’s elbows go out from under him. He can hear himself making sounds but he can’t stop them from coming. 

Ryan’s fingers press into him—two first, then three, and it hurts. The pain never really goes away, but it gets better, and then it starts to feel good, too, which is distraction enough from the discomfort. Brendon can’t tell if it’s been a long time since they started or a very short time. Ryan’s arm is heavy on Brendon’s hips, holding him in place. 

There’s something about Ryan’s fingers inside him that strikes Brendon as intimate far beyond what he’s associated with sex. He’s never dared to want this enough to think about it before, and despite the pain it feels so _right_. Brendon’s never felt so anchored, so owned, so perfectly that he _belongs_ anywhere, until now, here, under Ryan. 

“Please,” Brendon pants and for the first time he realises he’s sweating, all of his body straining towards Ryan. Ryan looms over him and Brendon almost cries over the loss of his mouth, except then Ryan’s kissing him again. “Please,” Brendon says again, against Ryan’s lips. 

Ryan pushes into him and Brendon clings to his arms, fingernails digging into Ryan’s shoulders, leaving red marks. Ryan presses their foreheads together and waits until Brendon’s grip loosens before pushing in further. It takes several minutes like this before Ryan’s all the way in and Brendon feels full and it’s so _good_. 

“Okay?” Ryan asks, and nips at his mouth, soft kisses with just a hint of teeth and it only takes Brendon a moment to relax and respond, opening his mouth for deeper kisses. 

“Okay,” he says, and nods. 

Ryan draws back and pushes in again slowly and Brendon lies back and lets him, content with this sensation of being taken. Ryan only manages another couple thrusts before he makes a soft sound of pleasure and frustration. He grabs Brendon’s leg at the knee and jerks it up high, over his hip and pushes in again and this time Brendon finds himself arching up into it, gasping at the sensation, reaching for Ryan and holding tight. 

Brendon can hear himself saying something, he doesn’t know what, and now when Ryan moves, Brendon is moving with him, chasing the sensation. The pain is all but forgotten in the face of this pleasure. It’s too overwhelming, too bright and good. Ryan touches his cock again, wraps his fist tight and jerks twice before Brendon comes. 

Ryan keeps moving and it’s almost too much sensation. Brendon whimpers and his cock jumps like it wants to be hard again but can’t. Ryan buries his face in Brendon’s neck when he comes, and the hot rush inside makes Brendon wish he could come again, right then. 

Ryan slumps against him, breath warm and damp on Brendon’s skin and their breathing slows down together. For several minutes, everything in Brendon’s mind and body is blissfully still and silent. It is the most relaxed, most contented he’s felt in longer than he can remember. 

Then Ryan shifts and pulls out all the way, lying at Brendon’s side. It stings, but Brendon barely feels it over the sudden terror that rushes through him. He can’t tell if it is paralysing or freeing. 

Brendon’s been taught that sex is the physical expression of love and must be saved until after marriage. He’s never thought he’d marry for love and sex has always just been something he’s seen as an unavoidable duty as a good Mormon and husband and son. 

Still, something inside him baulks at the fact that he just had sex outside of marriage and it wasn’t even because he was in love, or even that he felt some overwhelming need to do it. Ryan had just _asked_ and Brendon had just given in because it felt good. 

There are things that can be forgiven, but he knows without having to ask that this isn’t one of them. Having sex with another man…if it even exists, Brendon’s not getting into the Celestial Kingdom. 

“Are you okay?” Ryan asks. His voice sounds rough but sincere, a counterpoint to the soft touch of Ryan’s hand on his arm. Brendon doesn’t know how to answer. 

“Hey,” Ryan says. He sits up. “Did I hurt you?” 

Brendon shakes his head. “No,” he says. His throat is tight and forcing words past is painful. “It felt nice. Really nice.” 

“Then when do you look so miserable?” Ryan asks. He traces his fingers over Brendon’s cheek, around the shape of his lips. In a distant way, the sensation is pleasant, but Brendon barely registers it.

Brendon doesn’t mean to tell the truth. His mind is screaming for him to say anything but the truth. All the same, the words fall from his lips, saying all the things he’s thinking. All the things he _has_ been thinking about religion and being gay and how what they just did goes against everything he’s tried so hard to believe in. 

Ryan listens, face losing a little more expression with every word and when Brendon is finished, Ryan is silent. “I know you didn’t come here for this,” Brendon says. He’s not going to be mean, because they both know Ryan came for the sex and Brendon gave it willingly. “You can leave.” 

Ryan stares at Brendon, propped on his elbow above Brendon. Finally, he lowers himself again, curling on his side against Brendon and tucking an arm over Brendon’s chest. “I’d rather stay,” he says. 

Somehow, that makes Brendon feel better, something loosening in his chest. He feels almost giddy at the sudden lightness, even though his mind keeps telling him this doesn’t change anything. He’s still in so much trouble. Especially if Elder Mathis walks in on this. It’s one thing for them to be sort of loose about the rules. It’s another to be having gay sex. 

Ryan feels nice and though he looks like he’s all sharp angles, his body is soft pressed against Brendon’s. He draws Brendon into a slow kiss and Brendon feels the tension slowly seeping out of his neck and shoulders. 

Brendon pulls the covers over them both and Ryan lays his head on Brendon’s shoulder. It’s a small bed, but they fit pretty well. Brendon’s mind suddenly flashes back to waking up held close to Jon’s body, and shame and regret flash white hot through Brendon. 

“I’m so fucked up,” he whispers. 

Ryan is quiet for so long Brendon thinks he’s gone to sleep. But then he shifts and places a kiss on Brendon’s chest and says, “We all are.”

It’s cold outside and Spencer’s head is spinning. He really wishes he hadn’t taken Jon up on the offer of a drink earlier, because the alcohol really isn’t helping. Pete Wentz is still sitting at Spencer’s table when he walks back into the club, and that isn’t really helping either. 

“Jon,” he says sternly and quietly. Even in the din of the room, Jon hears him and looks up. There are a million things Spencer could say, but he thinks Jon already knows them all. 

“Hey guys,” Jon says, “I’ll be back in a minute.” He disentangles himself from William and Tom’s arms and leads Spencer down a hall next to the bar, leading towards backstage. Maybe Jon’s played here before. Maybe with Fall Out Boy. 

Spencer should have put this all together a lot sooner, he thinks. His mind races, trying to figure out if there have been clues and he’s been too dense to recognise them. That Jon wouldn’t talk about his music in the past should have been a big enough clue, really. 

Jon shuffles Spencer into a storage closet and Spencer waits until Jon’s shut and locked the door before he starts. “Jon Walker, what the _fuck_?” he demands, arms crossed over his chest, posture stiff, bitch face on. 

“I really didn’t mean for you guys to find out like this,” Jon says. He’s caught halfway between the door and Spencer, like he wants to come closer but has thought better of it. 

“So you meant for us to find out, eventually?” Spencer asks. He tilts his head at a sharp angle, using his height to its full advantage to try and make Jon feel as small as possible. Ryan might be the most obviously cold of the two of them, but Spencer does it a lot more effectively when he’s in the mood. 

“Spence,” Jon starts, and he looks like maybe contrition might turn into annoyance at any minute. 

“No,” Spencer snaps. “Fucking _Christ_ , Jon, what the fuck where you _thinking_? You _know_ how seriously Ryan takes music. You _know_ how he feels about what Pete said to him.” 

Jon holds his ground but he looks like he wants to take a step back. He shoves his hands in his pockets instead. “What?” Spencer asks. “Did you think Ryan would try to take advantage of the fact you know him? 

“What? No!” Jon protests and he takes a step forward. 

“Well that’s what Ryan’s thinking, you know?” Spencer says meanly, watching the way the words affect Jon, making his mouth twist and his face fall. 

“Spence, it isn’t like that,” Jon says in a hurry. “I mean, that’s usually why I don’t tell people, but that wasn’t why! Ryan, he’s so worried about what other people think of his music and I knew that once we got our act together, once we showed Pete, he’d want to sign us. But I wanted Ryan to be sure about things first. I wanted him to think we were good without needing _Pete_.” 

“Yeah, well now he’s going to think just the opposite,” Spencer says. “He’s going to think you thought we weren’t good enough to let him know about Pete.” 

There’s a trapped, almost frantic look on Jon’s face and Spencer gets a sort of perverse thrill from seeing it. Jon’s usually so cool and mellow, never gets worked up, and sometimes it drives Spencer crazy. This is a nice change. 

Jon pushes a hand through his hair and stares blankly at Spencer’s face. “I didn’t want it to happen like this. I wasn’t doing this to hurt anyone. I wanted it to be right.” 

“And look how well that turned out!” Spencer shouts. “For fuck’s sake, Jon, how many times do I have to tell you. You don’t have to fix everything so it’s perfect. You try and you just end up fucking it up, instead. You’re going to be lucky if Ryan ever _talks_ to you again.” 

Jon’s back to that place again, wavering between regret and anger. “Pete’s my friend. This wouldn’t be a big deal if he wasn’t Pete Wentz.” 

Spencer feels his lips stretching into a sneer. “Look, make up your mind, Jon. Either Ryan’s an attention whore or he’s not.” 

“I’m not _saying_ that,” Jon shouts. 

There’s nothing Spencer can say at this point that won’t make him feel like they’re talking in circles. So he drops his arms and rolls his shoulders back and shoves past Jon on the way to the door. The music is loud outside of the room, reminding him that he’s in a club and that there are a bunch of rock stars at his table. 

The two people who mean the most to him in the world might not be friends anymore and Spencer needs to fix things. He plasters a smile on his face that feels big and bright and fake and goes back to his table. 

“Hey, Spencer, right?” Tom greets him. There’s a fresh round of drinks on the table and Tom passes one to Spencer. 

Spencer nods and ignores the drink. Tom shares a look with the guy at his side. Mike, Spencer thinks he remembers, from the liner notes on Ryan’s The Academy Is… CD. “So Jon didn’t mention any of us, did he?” Tom asks after a moment of silence. 

“Nope,” Spencer says, and tries not to sound too bitchy. It isn’t Tom’s fault, after all, and Tom doesn’t seem like a mean guy. 

Tom sighs. “Your friend…we really shouldn’t come over tomorrow.” 

“No,” Spencer says. “Not tomorrow. But you should. Ryan needs to—you should come over. Maybe in a couple days.” He tries to mentally gauge when enough time would pass for Ryan to be alright again. There isn’t really a precedent for this particular situation, though. 

Spencer sees Jon making his way back through the crowd, his mouth set in a grim line. “I should probably go catch up with Ryan,” he says to the group at large, and then, with eyes only for Pete says, “and if _you’re_ coming over, could you try not to be such a douchebag?” 

Pete lets out a little shock of laughter. “If he can’t take a little criticism,” He trails off, smile mocking. 

“If you didn’t have Patrick Stump singing your lyrics, you’d be in the same place,” Spencer shoots back, full of venom. “And you’re going to sign us. It isn’t going to be because you’re friends with Jon. It’s going to be because you wish you’d thought up Ryan’s lyrics first.” 

Spencer’s heart is thumping wildly in his chest even when he’s outside the club and he’s so hyped up, so angry, he barely feels the cold. He’s already thinking he shouldn’t have said what he did. At least not in front of so many other people. But it needed to be said, and Ryan would never be the one to say it. 

No matter how upset he’s been over Pete’s email, no matter how it’s affected him, or how many times he’s said he wants to punch Pete, the fact is Ryan still worships the very ground he walks on. 

Ryan’s cell goes straight to voicemail when Spencer tries it. He doesn’t bother leaving a message but he turns the phone over and over in his hands the entire way home on the train. He knows better than to think that Ryan will call him, but it doesn’t stop him from hoping. 

The lights are all out when Spencer gets home. He checks Ryan’s room anyway, but he isn’t particularly surprised to find it empty. Spencer has been friends with Ryan long enough to know how he deals with his anger and disappointment. As small children he turned to Spencer for reassurance, but as soon as Ryan discovered how easy it was to trip people into his bed, he began looking to strangers. 

It stings, thinking that Ryan’s out in some guy’s bed, or some girl’s. Worse than the thought of Ryan being with Jon, really. Spencer had hoped they were past this. Since they’d come to Chicago Ryan’s stopped his one night stands. 

Spencer’s been kidding himself, pretending maybe it means Ryan’s realised something about their friendship or something. One mistake on Jon’s part, and it’s regressed to this. Spencer can’t really figure out how they’ve got to this point where they just keep hurting each other, but it has to stop. 

Jon comes home late, and Spencer hopes he’s drunk or has enough sense to stay away, or something. He hears Ryan’s door open and close again gently, and then his door opens without a knock. “Hey,” Jon says, and he doesn’t sound drunk. 

Spencer considers playing asleep, but Ryan Ross is enough passive aggression for any one friendship, ever. Instead he rolls over and tips back his covers in an obvious invitation. They’re going to have to talk about this, and putting it off isn’t going to do any good. Lying awake for the past three hours has given Spencer some time to organise his thoughts and cool down, and maybe he can even understand why Jon was being so stupid. 

“Hey,” Jon says again, sitting with his back against the headboard. His fingers feel nice tangling in Spencer’s hair, separating the strands. “I heard what you said to Pete.” 

“Yeah?” Spencer asks, keeping his voice calm and blank. Nonetheless he feels himself tensing up. 

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. He’s reading Spencer’s tension, hand slipping down to the base of Spencer’s skull and rubbing. “Bill said it was pretty hardcore.” 

Spencer blinks up at Jon in obvious surprise. “We’re his _friends_ ,” Jon says. “You don’t think we’re treated to his douchebaggery on a regular basis?” 

“Well, he was being a dick to Ryan,” Spencer says. “Your friend’s an asshole.” 

Jon chuckles. “Yeah. I’m sure _you_ have no idea what it’s like, having an asshole for a friend.” Probably Spencer should get indignant on Ryan’s behalf, but it’s true. Instead he turns his head to give Jon better access to his neck. 

“But the thing is, Pete really did like Ryan’s lyrics. He talked about them before I even knew who you guys were, and look, I didn’t realise that Ryan was _that_ Ryan for a long time after I met you guys, okay?” Jon squeezes Spencer’s neck tighter for a second to drive home the point. 

“But Pete, he said all this stuff about lyrical soulmates and shit. I think he was…testing Ryan tonight, and yeah, it’s stupid, but that’s how Pete works. I think that maybe, you know, when this has all…passed over, or whatever, that Pete and Ryan are going to be BFFs and insufferably pretentious together.” 

“You shouldn’t have lied to us, Jon,” Spencer says, feeling sleepy and relaxed under Jon’s touch, but not ready to let it go yet. 

“Yeah,” Jon agrees. “But I didn’t really lie to you. I just…didn’t tell you something.” Spencer lifts his head and glares at Jon in the dark. Jon traces a hand down Spencer’s cheek. “Tell me right now you’ve never not told Ryan something really important.” 

Spencer’s heart catches in his throat, because right then he _knows_ that Jon knows. Jon knows that Spencer loves Ryan and it makes Spencer feel trapped and dizzy. If Jon can see it, does Ryan see it? If he does, does he ignore it because he knows he’ll never return Spencer’s feelings? If Jon sees how Spencer feels about Ryan, does he see how Spencer feels about _him_? 

“Well, good luck trying to get Ryan to see it like that,” Spencer whispers. He pointedly rolls away from Jon’s touch. Jon heaves a sigh, and a moment later the bed lifts as he gets up and leaves the room. 

Spencer tries to stay awake, listening for the sound of Ryan coming home. Ryan never _sleeps_ with his one night stands. Usually there’s a round or two and then he comes staggering home in the wee hours of the morning. Spencer knows because when they were in Vegas, the home Ryan more often than not staggered back to was Spencer’s. That, and Ryan always tells him about these things. 

Without really meaning to, he drifts off to sleep sometime after four and wakes again when the sky is starting to lighten. On his way back from the bathroom he stumbles down the hall to Ryan’s room to find the bed still empty, and he’s just starting to worry when he gets back to his room and the green light on his cell is flashing with a text. 

The message is from Ryan at a quarter ‘til five in the morning and reads, “staying w/a friend dont wait up.” Spencer represses the urge to throw the phone at the wall because he’s not a five year old, or Ryan Ross. Instead he shoves the phone under his pillow and lays his head resolutely on top of it, vowing to go back to sleep and forget about this whole mess for a while. He still can’t stop himself from snorting and thinking, _yeah, a friend, I bet._

Pretty much the minute Spencer had stormed out of The Lapin Agile, Tom had grabbed Jon’s arm and dragged him down to the diner on the corner for a little heart-to-heart about the appropriate way to treat one’s friends. It was well-meant, Jon knows, but Tom had been utter shit at it, and Bill had ended up doing most of the really bitchy lecturing. 

The thing is, Jon already _knows_ all of this. He _knows_ how badly he’s fucked up, without Spencer trying to tear him apart with cold looks and colder words, without Tom’s interference and Bill’s remarkably oblivious speech. He knows precisely how hard won Ryan’s trust is because he struggled for it for what seemed like forever. 

It’s funny, because Jon knows how really crazy it is that they all managed to end up in the club at the same time on the same night. Seriously, what are the chances? Jon had to do something to piss Ryan off (and he’s still puzzling over just what that was, in the first place), and Ryan had to decide to go out and Jon had to fucking suggest the Lapin, and fucking Sisky had to give shit answers to honest questions about when people where getting home and someone had to ask Joe where they were going for the night and fucking _Joe_ had to pick the Lapin, too. 

What’s even funnier is that Jon has been planning to tell Ryan and Spencer. He’s been thinking of the right way to do it, because surprise parties aside, he knew it with all of his famous friends back in town it was only going to be a matter of time before they came around. He’d thought he had another day or two to find the right time. He’s not sure whether he’s more interested in throttling Sisky or himself. 

Jon sleeps uneasily for a few hours and when he wakes just after seven in the morning, Ryan still isn’t home. His phone is back on when Jon calls, but Ryan doesn’t pick up for him, and Jon isn’t surprised. Spencer isn’t awake yet and Jon isn’t up for round three of that particular fight, even if Spencer’s going to be more grown up about it than Ryan. 

Jon thinks about going to talk to Brendon. There’s something about being around Brendon that makes Jon feel like a better person. He’d never really thought of himself as an asshole or anything, until Ryan introduced him to Spencer and suddenly everything that either of them said or did had multiple meanings, none of them very nice. Brendon makes Jon feel more like himself again—comfortable and warm, and being nice to Brendon is so easy. 

It’s Sunday morning and Jon knows that if Brendon isn’t already gone for Church, he will be soon. Jon showers and decides that a nice breakfast might help with getting back into Ryan’s good graces, so he starts getting out the things for Ryan’s favourite type of omelette. 

Only, Ryan doesn’t come back for breakfast. Jon’s not sure whether he’s angry or worried, but either way he doesn’t like it. When two o’clock rolls around and Spencer still hasn’t stuck his head out of his room, and Ryan strolls in the front door freshly showered and wearing borrowed sweats, Jon’s pretty much in the pissed off category. 

“Jon,” Ryan says, and guilt flashes over his face. It’s quickly replaced by blank disdain. “I wasn’t sure you’d show your face around here this soon.” 

Jon rolls his eyes. “You have a good night?” he asks. 

Ryan stops on his way towards his bedroom and gives Jon an appraising look over his shoulder. “You mean _after_ finding out that you’re a lying asshole?” He sounds more amused than angry about it, which is setting off all sorts of warning bells in Jon’s head. “Yeah. I’d say it was a very good night.” 

Spencer finally comes out, no doubt hearing their voices, and casts a look back and forth between them. His eyes widen when he sees the sweats Ryan’s wearing, and Jon can’t really understand why. But Spencer just says, “Oh, Ryan, tell me you didn’t.” 

“You’re not my dad, Spencer,” Ryan snaps. “I didn’t hurt anyone.” He pushes past Spencer and down the hall. Spencer gives Jon a look before following. 

There are fights Jon knows he can be a part of and there are fights when he knows to stay the hell out of the way, and this is obviously one of the latter. Not just because of last night. They don’t scream when they fight like this, and he can’t really make out what they’re saying in their urgent, hushed tones, but it ends in slamming doors and Jon still confused. 

Ryan comes out dressed in his own clothes and curls up on the sofa next to Jon, not quite touching. Jon’s been watching HGTV for the last five hours without really taking anything away from it. From Ryan’s blank stare, Jon figures it’s the same for him. 

“Are you talking to me?” Jon asks. 

Ryan fiddles with the long sleeves of his shirt, working his thumbs in and out of holes he’s cut in the wrists. “No.” He doesn’t sound sullen, which might have made Jon feel better. He just sounds sad and resigned. 

Jon wants to reach out but he isn’t sure that’s allowed that yet. “I’m sorry,” he says. 

“I don’t want to talk right now,” Ryan says. Again, there’s no heat in it. It makes Jon feel on edge, like there’s another shoe about to drop and it’s going to hit him right in the fucking head. 

“That’s fine. But I told Tom and Pete not to come over tonight, okay? They don’t have to come over until you feel like seeing them,” Jon says. 

Ryan doesn’t answer. He just stares straight ahead at the screen, occasionally tapping out responses when his cell phone buzzes with a new text. Spencer stays locked up in his room and while he’s quiet Jon can hear his anger and disapproval practically bellowing through the apartment. 

Brendon knocks on their door in the early evening and Jon’s sort of epically grateful for the distraction. Brendon looks tired and worried and peeks at the room over Jon’s shoulder before falling back on his heels and sparing Jon a weak smile. “Hey,” Brendon says. “Can I come in?” 

Jon steps aside for him and looks at Ryan, whose shoulders are climbing towards his ears. “I was just thinking about ordering some pizza for dinner. You up for some?” Jon asks Brendon, though it’s for Ryan, too. 

Brendon looks at Ryan who shrugs. “Pizza sounds good,” Brendon says, and Jon goes into the kitchen to look through the menus and coupons and through the door he sees Brendon cautiously approaching Ryan on the couch and taking the seat beside him. Brendon whispers something and Ryan tugs on his sleeves some more and tucks his chin against his chest. 

Jon clears his throat. Something about the sight of them makes him feel uneasy. “Pepperoni, peppers and sausage okay?” he calls into the next room. There’s a mumbled response of approval from Brendon and Ryan. 

When he comes back in from the kitchen Brendon’s moved closer and Ryan’s unfolded a little, their heads close together as they exchange whispers. Jon sits down at the far end of the sofa and they fall abruptly silent. 

“Are you feeling better today?” Jon asks. 

Brendon turns to Jon with an inexplicably sheepish look on his face and tries to give Jon a smile that looks sort of painful. “A little, I think.” He darts a look at Ryan. “I’ve been thinking…I didn’t go to church this morning, and I’ve been thinking that I’m just going to finish the mission, and then I’m not going to go back to church again.” 

Ryan’s eyes go wide and he reaches out to touch Brendon’s shoulder, but his hand falls back to his lap before he makes contact. Jon puts his hand on Brendon’s knee and gives him a little shake. “Are you happy about that?” he asks. 

“I…I don’t know,” Brendon says. His eyes have a far away look to them. “I think it’s for the best? I know I shouldn’t keep going. But I can’t tell my parents.” 

Jon puts an arm around Brendon’s shoulders to draw him close but Brendon is stubbornly resistant, going stiff and immobile. Jon lets his arm drop away, confused and hurt. He doesn’t let it show, though. “You worried about what they’ll say?” 

“I’m pretty sure I know what they’ll say,” Brendon says, laughing a rueful little laugh. “They’ll disown me.” 

Jon casts a worried look at Ryan who’s worrying his bottom lip between his teeth and refuses to meet Jon’s eyes. “You know, if they…if they did, Brendon, we could…” he wants to offer his help, and if Ryan isn’t willing, Jon will offer Brendon his own parents’ place. 

Ryan finally relents. He clears his throat and lifts his head a little jerkily to look at Brendon and says, “If they did, you could stay with us.” 

“Really?” Brendon asks, and turns wide, hopeful eyes on Ryan and Ryan gives him a hesitant smile, stroking a hand down Brendon’s arm. Rather than go stiff like he had with Jon, Brendon relaxes against Ryan’s side. 

“Really,” Ryan says, and gives Brendon an almost tender smile. Jon shouldn’t really be surprised, because Ryan’s been pretty nice to Brendon lately, but there’s still something odd about it all. 

Spencer comes out when the pizza comes and he gives Brendon a strangely regretful look and asks if he’s okay and keeps glaring at Ryan while Brendon tells Spencer what he told them earlier. “Brendon,” Spencer says cautiously, “maybe your parents would understand.” 

Brendon laughs and Ryan rolls his eyes. “You don’t know my parents,” Brendon says. “If I just…If I just wait out the mission, maybe I can talk to them about going to school somewhere other than BYU.” 

“You mean, you aren’t going to tell them at _all_?” Jon asks. 

“I _can’t_ ,” Brendon insists hotly. Ryan brushes a hand down Brendon’s back and Brendon takes a deep breath, calming a little. “Sorry. I just. I can’t.” 

“Whatever you have to do,” Jon says. He makes his voice soft and placating, and pushes away the hurt he feels over this whole strange situation. It doesn’t help that Spencer’s watching the three of them like he’s expecting them to all suddenly explode with crazy. Jon can’t really fault him. 

They watch a movie with dinner and throughout it all Brendon remains seated with his painfully perfect posture, leaning neither into Jon nor Ryan. Jon’s wondering if he should try again. Maybe if he offers to let Brendon play the piano again. That really cheered him up last time. 

He’s trying to figure out how to suggest it in a way that won’t seem weird in front of Spencer and Ryan and that won’t scare away the newly skittish Brendon when Ryan gets up from the couch and stretches. Even now, considering all that’s going on, Jon can’t help but stare at the line of Ryan’s arched back or the skin exposed along his lower stomach. Brendon and Spencer are looking, too, he notices. 

“I have an eight o’clock class tomorrow,” Ryan says, and it must be for Brendon’s benefit, because Jon and Spencer already know that much. 

“If you wanna hang around some more,” Jon says, “you can come play around on the keyboard again.” 

Ryan gives Brendon a sharp look. “You play piano?” he asks. 

“Just a little,” Brendon says quickly. “Not…it’s just something that helps me feel calm.” 

Jon frowns because Brendon’s modest, sure, but he’s not stupid. “He’s really good at it,” Jon says. 

Now Ryan’s sharp look is on Jon. “Well, that’s great, but Brendon’s staying with me tonight. Come on, Brendon.” 

Brendon shoots Jon an apprehensive expression but he gets up and follows Ryan down the hall. “Night, Jon. Spencer.” Spencer gives him a little wave but Jon can only watch in blank shock as the bedroom door is closed. 

“Jon,” Spencer says. Jon looks at him, and Spencer doesn’t seem surprised about this whole thing and Jon gets it, suddenly, that Spencer already knew. That he knew the moment Ryan walked in that morning and that was why Spencer had been so angry. 

Jon isn’t sure whether he’s angry or not, mostly because he’s overwhelmed by being absolutely _bewildered_ at the moment because he’d thought…he’d thought… That he and Ryan and Spencer _had_ something. 

He’d been being patient and taking it slow because he’d thought that was what Ryan needed. He’d thought he had time. He certainly hadn’t seen Brendon as a problem, because Brendon so obviously wasn’t ready for that sort of thing. 

A little voice in his head tells him that this doesn’t mean it’s all over. Maybe he could have Brendon, too. Except no matter how nice that sounds, Jon has to be realistic about things. Wanting and loving two people is hard enough, especially when Ryan and Spencer don’t make it particularly easy to be loved, sometimes. 

Jon has this sinking feeling that Ryan’s doing this with Brendon to hurt Jon. It makes Jon want to warn Brendon away from Ryan, but there’s no way of doing that without making it patently obvious to Brendon that he’s being used. Jon just can’t do that right now, not with everything else that’s weighing Brendon down and making him feel worthless. 

Spencer scoots closer on the sofa and lays a tentative hand on Jon’s leg. Jon opens up a little, wrapping an arm around Spencer’s shoulders and drawing him in. Spencer’s curves press into Jon’s side and it feels strange without Ryan’s angles all along his other side. Spencer feels small and he’s not angry at Jon anymore but he looks so dejected. 

Jon can’t help but feel that this is his fault somehow. Beyond the obvious fact that he neglected to tell Ryan about Pete which somehow led to Brendon being pulled into their little game of hurting each other. 

But no, the simple fact that Jon’s let the game go on so long is probably worse. Spencer tells him he tries too hard to fix things and it never works and Jon’s going to have to admit that where Spencer and Ryan are concerned, Spencer’s right. Maybe if Jon had made a move earlier. 

“I can’t tell if I’m angrier with Ryan or more worried about Brendon,” Spencer confides. 

“I’m pretty worried about Ryan, too,” Jon says. 

Spencer snorts softly. “Yeah, my worry is pretty much eclipsed by my blinding rage right now,” Spencer says. Jon’s known Ryan and Spencer to fight, but he’s never heard this tone in Spencer’s voice, aimed at Ryan. He has to wonder what that means about the way Spencer feels for Brendon. 

“He didn’t force Brendon,” Jon says, even though he isn’t entirely sure of it, himself. 

“He didn’t have to force him. Brendon’s a fucking mess right now. Anyone can see it. He’s confused and he’s vulnerable. Of course Ryan didn’t have to force him. Taking advantage of his weakness is just as bad,” Spencer says. 

Jon makes himself remain calm, because if he gets angry he’s going to get really fucking angry. “They have a lot in common,” he says. “And Brendon’s with him tonight, which means they must have talked about it, right? Instead of Ryan just…just…fucking him and then leaving. Maybe it will work out okay.” 

Spencer gives Jon a look that speaks volumes about how much of a moron Jon is, in Spencer’s eyes. “Sometimes your optimism sounds a little bit more like idiocy,” he murmurs, but he sounds fond about it. 

The thing is, with the friends Jon’s chosen to surround himself with—Tom and Bill’s destructive, ever deteriorating relationship, Pete’s depression and suicide attempts, and now Ryan with his mood swings and emotional retardation—optimism is all he’s got going for him, a lot of the time. 

“Spencer Smith,” Jon says, and makes sure he sounds certain, even if he doesn’t feel it, “everything’s going to work out okay.” 

“Jonathan Walker,” Spencer says, flicking him a wry grin, “you’re a lying asshole.” 

Brendon has the most beautiful skin Ryan’s ever seen. Ryan lies down beside Brendon, running his fingers up Brendon’s bare back, catching on each step of his spine. Brendon’s skin has that sort of perfect flawlessness that you never really believe exists outside of airbrushed photoshoots. 

Actually, Ryan could say that about Brendon’s entire body. Brendon did a damn good job of hiding his figure with sweats and his weird Mormon uniform, or whatever, but underneath it… 

Brendon’s surprisingly muscular, but not overly so—just enough to be pleasing—lines of definition on his stomach, nicely shaped arms, powerful thighs. And his ass…Ryan’s pretty sure that guys aren’t supposed to have asses like that, but he isn’t going to complain. 

As nice as all of that is, though, Ryan likes Brendon’s face the best, laid on the pillow next to his. His lips are naturally full and now red from kissing Ryan. His eyes, without his glasses in the way, are so big and the brightest shade of brown Ryan’s ever seen. They’re different from Jon’s gentle, warm brown or Ryan’s cool amber. Brendon’s, unburdened from drugs, no longer dull, practically sparkle. 

“Did you mean what you said out there?” Ryan asks. 

Brendon sighs and turns his face into the pillow. His answer is muffled, but Ryan can still understand him. “When I woke up with you this morning, I couldn’t bear the idea of going to church. And…I know I’m going to have to go back, because if I don’t, they won’t let me finish my mission and my parents will find out…

“But. I realised this morning that it doesn’t really matter whether I’m going or not. I don’t believe it anymore. If I did, I’d never have let you…” Ryan stiffens and Brendon, like he knows it, turns his face quickly. “Not that you…look, Ryan, I knew what was happening and I made the choice. I didn’t mean to make it sound like you took advantage of me.” 

But I did, Ryan thinks to himself and bites down on his tongue until it hurts. “Well. I meant what I said, too. If you need to stay here…”

Brendon nods and leaning in like he wants Ryan’s touch. Ryan doesn’t know if Brendon actually wants it or if it is just that Ryan wants it so badly he’s projecting it.

Ryan gives in to the desire, leaning over to press a kiss to Brendon’s smooth shoulder and the skin is so soft beneath his lips he has to keep kissing. He thinks of Jon sitting on the couch right now, knowing what’s happening in this bedroom. 

Brendon tilts his head and Ryan moves up his neck, tonguing the spot behind Brendon’s ear he discovered this morning. Brendon whimpers and thrusts his hips into the bed. 

Ryan brushes his hands down Brendon’s side, pausing at the line where bare skin meets the waistband of Brendon’s trousers and Brendon lifts to let Ryan reach for the fastenings. 

Brendon’s breathing goes a little shallow. “Does this mean we’re dating?” Brendon asks. 

Ryan hums a vague noise, nosing across Brendon’s hairline. The place at the top of his spine is begging to be marked. Ryan scrapes his teeth over the skin and Brendon twists under him, shoving his ass back to rub against Ryan’s groin. 

“So,” Brendon persists and rolls onto his back, shimmying out of his pants and underwear, kicking them towards the foot of the bed. “I can call you my boyfriend?” 

Ryan pauses and considers it, looking down at Brendon, who’s naked and gorgeous, whose eyes are big and expectant and hopeful. Dating has never gone very well for Ryan in the past, and he doesn’t have any great expectations. 

The word ‘boyfriend’ doesn’t mean anything to Ryan, but it does to Brendon, and it will to Jon. “I guess,” Ryan says, frowning. “Roll back over.” 

Brendon reaches up to twine an arm around Ryan’s neck and pulls him down for a kiss. Ryan strains against it for a second, hands braced on the bed to either side of Brendon’s shoulders. Brendon’s really good at kissing, though, for someone who’s fairly new to the whole thing. He’s a quick learner and he kisses like he’s _dying_ or something, all desperate and it’s sort of addictive. 

Ryan relaxes, letting his weight rest on Brendon and opens his mouth to Brendon’s questing tongue. It’s nice, once he gives in to it, pausing in the rush for skin and sweat to just kiss. 

Brendon pulls back after several long minutes and gives Ryan a smile from under his lashes, all coy and beautiful, and it makes Ryan’s breath catch in his throat. Then his arm drops and he rolls back onto his stomach. 

Ryan shrugs out of his shirt and gets rid of his pants on his way to the nightstand for the lube. Brendon has folded his arms under his head while he waits and his eyes are hot and heavy on Ryan’s naked body. 

Brendon opens for Ryan so nicely, parting his legs and arching his back into Ryan’s touch. He writhes under Ryan’s touch as Ryan adds a second finger and then a third, working deeper and harder with each thrust until there’s sweat glistening down Brendon’s back and he’s murmuring pleas into the pillowcase. 

When Ryan finally slides in, Brendon scrambles onto his knees to let Ryan in deeper, rocking back onto Ryan’s cock. Ryan likes the way his fingers look on Brendon’s hip, paper white against Brendon’s darker skin. 

Ryan would have expected someone with Brendon’s religious background to be reserved or weird during sex. Maybe it’s something to do with a life of repressing his sexuality, or something, but Brendon’s really amazingly responsive. Even last night he’d gone from shy to vocally desperate in a matter of minutes and the shy hasn’t stepped back in since. 

During high school Ryan had a few crazy nights with some Catholic school girls. But this is different from their exhaustively slutty repertoires. Brendon isn’t ashamed to ask for Ryan’s touch, or to gasp, “faster, harder, Ryan, please,” in this throaty voice that goes straight to Ryan’s dick. But there’s nothing put on about it. There’s something really honest and innocent about Brendon’s desire that Ryan could get addicted to. 

Later, lying in the dark, Ryan doesn’t mean to speak. There’s barely any space between their bodies. Ryan’s bed is bigger than Brendon’s, but Brendon’s lying close. The light from the window catches on Brendon’s profile, illuminating it in silver. He scoots closer without really meaning to, lifts himself up on one arm to drop a kiss over Brendon’s lips. 

Brendon smiles and fits an arm around Ryan’s shoulder when Ryan lies back, pressed to Brendon’s side. “What are you going to do if your parents still make you go to BYU?” Ryan asks. 

“I don’t know,” Brendon answers. 

It isn’t the answer Ryan wants, though he doesn’t realise he even wants a specific answer until Brendon’s already given the wrong one. Ryan has _always_ wanted his father’s love and approval, but he’s never been willing to compromise who he is in order to get it. It makes him irrationally angry to hear that Brendon is. 

“You mean you’d just go, after everything?” Ryan asks, sitting up a little. Brendon loosens his arm. “Then I suppose you’ll just get married to some chick when they want you to.” 

Brendon’s eyes are wide and surprised in the dark. “No. I didn’t mean it like... That isn’t what I… What do you want me to say, Ryan?” His voice loses some of its urgent passion at the end, going dead. 

“I don’t know, Brendon,” Ryan says. “Maybe I expect you to think about yourself instead of your parents who obviously don’t have your best interests at heart.” 

“That isn’t true,” Brendon says. He doesn’t sound angry, but resigned. “Ryan, I know you can’t understand it. I don’t think anyone could, who wasn’t raised in the Church, but they _do_ love me and I can’t…I can’t bear the thought of disappointing them. If I told them I was gay, it would just kill them.” 

Ryan, speaking from recent experiences pertaining to Jon Walker and Pete Wentz thinks that lying by omission is just as bad as any other kind, but he chooses not to mention as much at the moment. “So you’d go back?” 

Brendon tugs until Ryan’s lying back down again and strokes his palm up Ryan’s arm. “No,” he says, after a few minutes. “No. I didn’t mean that. I suppose if they didn’t accept it I’d stay with you guys until I could get a job and afford my own place. Maybe take a couple classes when I got the chance, or something. My grades were pretty good in school. I could probably get some financial aid.” 

He sound casual and blasé about his future, like none of it is what he really wants and that makes something in Ryan’s chest pang in sympathy. He knows what he _wants_. He knows that music is what makes him happy and the only thing he could see himself doing for the rest of his life and not regretting. Yet, even now that they’ve found Jesse, he still doesn’t think it’s right. He still doesn’t think it’s what he’s been looking for. 

“If you wanted,” Ryan says slowly, “you could come with me to class tomorrow. I’ve got history and geometry and pencil drawing. You could sit in. See if maybe college is something you might be interested in.” 

“Wow,” Brendon drawls, voice all dry sarcasm, “what a date. You know how to show a boy a good time.” Ryan smiles. Every time Brendon speaks, there’s a little more personality to it. He thinks he likes the sound of Brendon’s playful mocking. 

“Shut up,” Ryan says, and pinches Brendon’s stomach. “Or I’ll make coffee tomorrow, instead of buying you Starbucks on the way to class.” 

“Oh, please, no,” Brendon deadpans, and Ryan shuts him up with a kiss.

Somehow, and don’t expect Brendon to understand it, he’s become something approaching happy. It’s easy to skip his duties. His companions don’t even notice, they’re so busy avoiding their own duties. As long as he shows up to church, no one there suspects anything, either. He’d always been annoyed that everyone saw him as this model Mormon, but now it’s definitely working to his benefit. 

Jon helps him get a job at Starbucks, which takes up a lot of his free time in the mornings. That’s when they’re the busiest and shortest staffed since most of their workers go to either college or high school. Brendon’s used to getting up early anyway, and it leaves his evenings free to spend at the apartment with whoever’s around, usually Spencer and Ryan, though often Jon, too. 

Brendon had worried that things would be awkward with them, now that he’s dating Ryan, but Jon is as unfailingly kind and generous as before. Sometimes Spencer seems upset, but that’s usually directed at Ryan. 

With Brendon, Spencer’s opened up a bit more around Brendon. He doesn’t feel like he’s constantly being tested anymore. In fact, he feels like a welcome addition, and even a friend. 

Spencer’s the one who’s there when Brendon gets home from a crazy shift at work and feels strung out and tired and jittery and so, so tempted to take his meds. Spencer grabs his hands and laces their fingers together and sits with Brendon on the sofa. 

They watch The Discovery Channel until Brendon’s calmed down and then Spencer goes with Brendon to the bathroom while Brendon flushes the rest of his prescription down the toilet. 

Brendon sort of longs for the physical affection Ryan gives him and it’s surprising but not unwelcome when Spencer offers his own brand. He makes cookies then tucks Brendon under his arm and plays with his hair idly until Ryan comes home. As nice as Ryan’s kisses and assurances are, Brendon feels that Spencer’s simple touch is just as nice. 

“He’s good at that sort of thing,” Ryan confides, when Brendon says as much. “My dad was an alcoholic and Spence was always the one I went to when it was really bad.” 

Ryan says it casually, but Brendon knows it’s anything but. He knows this is some sort of test, the kind Ryan keeps throwing at him. Brendon must be passing them, because Ryan hasn’t gotten weird or called off their…thing, yet. 

“You’re lucky to have him,” Brendon says, staring at the shapes on Ryan’s bedspread. He’s spent so many nights here he’s starting to think of it as his bedspread, too, which he knows is dangerous. “Maybe if I’d had someone like him when I was younger, I wouldn’t be so fucked up now.” 

“You have him now,” Ryan says. “You have all of us now.” 

Brendon isn’t sure he believes that yet. He isn’t sure that this all won’t be taken away from him as fast as it was given, especially now that he’s sleeping with Ryan. Everything feels shaky and impermanent. 

It doesn’t help that sometimes when they’re all together Brendon will look at Jon and his breath will be stolen away by how _wrong_ it all feels. He can’t even really say why, whether he feels like he took Ryan away from Jon, or like Ryan took Jon away from him. 

Which is just stupid because Brendon is sort of maybe falling a little bit in love with Ryan and besides, he thinks Spencer and Jon might be sleeping with each other, or at least want to. 

Jesse comes over Monday and Wednesday nights and Brendon watches them play. Every time Jesse opens his mouth to sing Brendon feels uncomfortable and it takes him all the first practice and most of the second one to realise that he’s jealous. 

He isn’t going to say anything, because that’s remarkably unfair. Jesse’s really good, for one thing. Brendon’s pretty sure his voice wouldn’t match up. For another, just because he wants to sing in Ryan’s band doesn’t mean that Jesse shouldn’t be able to. 

So Brendon doesn’t say anything and listens as they run through a lot of old songs from the sixties and seventies and Jon keeps shooting Spencer these significant looks. Brendon wonders if maybe they haven’t _written_ any of their own stuff yet, and then Jesse answers the question when their Friday practice is dying down. He asks, “So when am I going to get to see your songs, Ross?” 

Ryan goes tense and Brendon feels this proud, proprietary surge that, while Jesse might be Ryan’s singer, Brendon’s the one who’s allowed to touch. He runs a hand down Ryan’s back and Ryan curves his spine into it. Jesse’s eyes narrow, watching them. He doesn’t like Brendon for some reason, which Brendon doesn’t get. Brendon doesn’t _think_ Jesse’s into Ryan like that. 

“Pretty soon, I think,” Ryan says. “I’m just working on some arrangements.” 

Jesse drags Jon off to some mutual friend’s party, which just makes Ryan even pissier. Brendon expects Ryan to take it out on him, either by ignoring him or telling him to go back to his own place, or something. But instead Ryan makes Brendon help him move the keyboard from Jon’s room into Ryan’s bedroom. 

Ryan takes a notebook from his nightstand. Brendon’s seen it with him a lot, scribbling while they watch television or at school or on the trains. It’s just a plain spiral notebook, though the cover is worn and the spiral is full of bunched and torn paper edges. 

“Jon said you played?” Ryan reminds him, turning the notebook over in his hands. 

Brendon shrugs. “I know how, yeah. I mean, I don’t know how good I am.” 

Ryan sits up on his knees on the bed and presses a kiss to the corner of Brendon’s mouth. “Will you play me something? Your favourite song?” 

Brendon can’t think of a favourite song off the top of his head, but his mind definitely goes to Chopin, so he plays one of his livelier etudes. It feels even better than playing for Jon such a short time ago, and Brendon can’t believe how long he’s gone without this. 

It’s almost addictive, watching his own fingers fly across the keys and he keeps playing after the first song and the second, until Ryan stops him halfway through his third piece, grabbing him around the wrist. 

“What?” Brendon starts to ask, but he looks and Ryan’s eyes are dark. He pushes Brendon back on the bed, straddling him and covering his mouth with deep, rough kisses. Ryan rocks against him, already hard and panting from it. 

“What?” Brendon asks again, between messy kisses and ragged breaths. 

“Get naked,” Ryan snaps and climbs off Brendon long enough to strip and grab the lube. 

Brendon can’t get his pants off quickly enough, apparently, because he barely has them down his thighs before Ryan just bends him over the bed and shoves two fingers in. It stings for a second before Ryan crooks his fingers deep inside and Brendon cries out, rubbing his hips against the sheets and thrusting back on Ryan’s hand. 

“Harder,” he says. Before, Brendon had known, objectively, that he’d prefer gay sex to straight. He just hadn’t expected to be so desperate for the feeling of another man’s cock spreading him open. 

Ryan fucks him hard, harder when Brendon asks for it. There’s not even a sting anymore, though when he’d first seen Ryan’s cock, Brendon had thought he’d never be able to fit it in his body. They’ve been doing this often enough lately that Brendon’s body is growing used to it. 

Ryan works in deeper, hips moving in figure eights, slow and rough. He doesn’t go faster, countering Brendon’s attempts to do so, getting up on his toes and rocking back. Ryan clamps his hands hard on Brendon’s hips and shoves in hard, as far as he can go, past any resistance and Brendon comes without either of them touching him, to both their surprise. 

“Fuck,” Ryan groans. He thrusts his hips against Brendon’s ass a few more times before he follows Brendon over, pulsing hot and wet deep inside. Brendon thinks he might be spoiled for sex for the rest of his life, with anyone else, because this whole no condom thing feels really nice. 

“What was that for?” Brendon asks, when he’s gotten the rest of the way undressed and a stuck pillow under his head. Ryan’s tucked under his arm, tapping his fingers absently on Brendon’s chest. 

Ryan half rolls over, staying in Brendon’s embrace, and reaches towards the side of the bed. He returns with the notebook, opening it to the first page and holding it out so Brendon can read. 

“You know Jon and Jesse were going out to meet friends of theirs,” Ryan says. Brendon nods cautiously. “They’re going to meet this guy.” He taps at a piece of paper taped to the inside cover. Brendon reads the message and notes the name, which sounds sort of familiar. 

“He sounds kind of like a jerk,” Brendon says and kisses Ryan’s shoulder. 

Ryan gives him a little half-smile. “You haven’t heard my stuff, yet.” 

Brendon pushes the notebook down a little and hooks a hand under Ryan’s chin, drawing him in for a kiss. Just a few days ago Ryan wasn’t as into the kissing as Brendon, but now he relents so easily. It’s gratifying that Brendon’s been able to do that. “Ryan,” Brendon says, when they part, “I know your stuff is awesome.” 

Ryan flushes and sits up, pushing the notebook at him. “Read it, then.” 

Most of the writing is just a jumbled collection of words, some of which Brendon’s never even heard before. More often than not they don’t rhyme and strung together they don’t even make any sense. 

Still, there’s something kind of lovely about the way Ryan’s put them together, something unique and a little bit profound. And then, between the snippets and sometimes paragraph long blocks of stream of consciousness, are the actual _songs_ Ryan’s written. 

Sometimes he’s written notes about what the song will sound like, but even when he hasn’t Brendon imagines he can hear it. They’re catchy and they’re mean and sarcastic and cutting and just really _good_. Even those he still doesn’t entirely understand, there are bits that hit him deep down to the bone, like Ryan somehow knew him, even years before they ever met. 

_Prescribed pills to offset the shakes, to offset the pills/You know you should take it a day at a time,_ and _It’s not so pleasant and it’s not so conventional/It sure as hell ain’t normal but we deal, we deal,_ and the entirety of the song titled _Strike up the Band_ , Brendon feels, are speaking directly to him, about him. 

He knows that he’s underestimated Ryan’s talent. Because of course Ryan didn’t know him, didn’t write these songs about him. Whoever that Pete guy is, he’s right, because Ryan’s lyrics are amazing. Kids are going to hear these and think the words have been written just for them. It’s going to be amazing. Panic! is going to be really fucking famous. 

Brendon sits up and moves to the edge of the bed where Ryan is pointedly not looking at him, plucking out random notes on his guitar. Brendon curls up against his back, putting a possessive hand on Ryan’s naked hip, palming the skin because he can and it feels nice under his touch and Ryan is responsive to it, moving with him. 

“Hey,” Brendon whispers into Ryan’s neck and Ryan turns his head, their eyes meeting. “You’re going to be a rock star, Ryan Ross,” he says. 

Ryan’s smile is brief but so bright that Brendon has to smile back, reflexively. “Yeah. Well, you’re going to have a rock star for a boyfriend,” Ryan says. His tone is so happy it’s practically foreign coming from him. “How are you going to feel about all the little teenage groupies trying to get into my pants?” 

Brendon laughs, butting his chin against Ryan’s shoulder. “Well, you can barely fit into your pants as it is, so I guess I feel pretty good about it.” 

Ryan rolls his eyes. “Anyway, I wanted your help with some of these. I’ve been working on the accompaniment and I wanted piano for some of the pieces and me and Jon aren’t good enough for that.” 

“I mean, I never studied composition,” Brendon says quickly. “I’ve written a few things but they’re just little ditties, not anything like, like…this.” He’s shaking his head but Ryan catches his wrist and leads his hand to the keys. 

“Brendon,” Ryan says. “Will you try for me?” 

There isn’t any way Brendon can say no to Ryan. That became patently obvious when Ryan walked into his apartment and took his virginity without the slightest effort. 

So Brendon helps Ryan compose, and it turns out better than he thought it would. He very carefully keeps his voice to himself because he isn’t trying to prove anything here. He’s just helping Ryan, not trying to take Jesse’s place and Jesse can’t play piano so this is okay. 

This is how Brendon can help, and Ryan talks about putting his name on the CD as one of the composers. That, Brendon figures, is a pretty big deal—composer and boyfriend. He can totally deal with that. 

It doesn’t make it hurt any less when Ryan finally turns over his lyrics to Jesse two practices later, towards the end of the evening, and tells him to look them over. Spencer and Jon look so _relieved_ , but Brendon just feels sort of empty, deep down in his stomach. 

Not even sex with Ryan makes Brendon feel better that night and Ryan can tell. He curls up to Brendon after, but doesn’t say anything, fingers twirling through Brendon’s hair. “I like your hair’s getting longer. You should grow it out. It’ll look hot.” 

Brendon hums his agreement without really thinking about it and Ryan squeezes him tighter and says, “Brendon, I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad we’re together.” 

Brendon has mostly moved into their apartment and Spencer doesn’t really mind all that much. He wants to be angry with Ryan but despite his original fears, Ryan is actually treating Brendon _nicely_. 

Having Brendon around is a nice reprieve from all the tension of the previous months. Not that Brendon sleeping with Ryan has done a whole lot of good for them, but in a way it’s helped clear up a lot of the unspoken problems. Because Ryan’s made a choice, even if it isn’t the choice that Spencer saw coming. 

Spencer drags Ryan aside the morning after Brendon first spends the night and says, “You better not fuck him up worse than he already is.” 

Ryan sneers and plucks his shirt out of Spencer’s grip. “It’s sort of becoming a habit for you, isn’t it?” he asks. 

“What are you talking about?” Spencer snaps, because he doesn’t have the patience for this and somehow, though Spencer hasn’t done anything, he sees his friendship with Ryan deteriorating in front of his eyes. 

“First Jon, and now Brendon,” Ryan says, ticking off his fingers. “Are you jealous, Spence? Is this your way of keeping me to yourself, falling for the guys I like?” 

It’s like he’s been punched in the throat. Spencer can’t even say anything to that, and not because it hits uncomfortably close to home, but because he can’t _believe_ Ryan said it. Ryan gets that look on his face, like he regrets what he’s just said but can’t bring himself to apologise for it, so he just flounces off, instead. 

What he said sticks with Spencer, though, lodging in his brain, and he can’t let it go, worrying and worrying. It doesn’t get any better. The worst part of it is that now that Ryan’s said something, Spencer has to re-evaluate the way he’s been looking at Brendon. 

Spencer can readily admit that he’s head over heels about stupid Jon Walker with his stupid lies and his stupid eyes and his stupid being perfect for Spencer and Ryan. That, he can admit, while being able to say that his falling for Jon had nothing to do with Ryan falling for him. Jon earned Spencer’s love all on his own merit. 

When he thinks about Brendon, looking back on the short weeks they’ve known each other, he can say that any affection he’s got for Brendon is all down to Brendon, too. Because, well, it’s difficult _not_ to feel affection for Brendon. 

Spencer had tried at the beginning, picking at Brendon’s mannerisms and his religion and all his little inconsistencies. It took surprisingly little time for Brendon to disarm Spencer’s cool derision, though. Something about his entirely unaffected sweetness and his smile. Maybe, one thing Spencer can blame on Ryan, Spencer’s got a thing for damaged people. 

Brendon has more issues than Ryan could ever hope to achieve, and in fact, Ryan’s just potentially adding to the list, and that’s where Spencer’s concern comes from. Brendon, painfully honest about his family while simultaneously unaware of how damning every word he speaks is, tells of a childhood full of emotional neglect and abuse, where nothing Brendon ever did was right. 

Ryan can bitch about Catholic school all he wants, but the fact remains that outside of school, those rules were never enforced by his father. The church in which Brendon was brought up, on the other hand, has left more than its fair share of scars. 

Spencer finds himself getting pissed off at how little Brendon thinks of his own self-worth, and he tries to keep it from showing, because Brendon inevitably thinks Spencer’s angry at him. 

After a couple days of struggling and failing at being angry with Jon over the whole Pete Wentz thing, Spencer gives in to the easy affection from Jon that has suddenly become so much easier. Brendon and Ryan have their end of the couch and Jon and Spencer have theirs, and sometimes Spencer’s foot will brush Brendon’s, and that’s nice, too, until Ryan starts glaring. 

On Thursday night Ryan takes Brendon out to the movies and Jon says, “Am I forgiven enough to ask you to come with me to a party at Tom’s?” 

Spencer gets that coy little smile that he can’t help when Jon’s around and lets Jon lace their fingers together the entire way, on the train and the walk to Tom’s apartment, and even lets Jon keep his hand through the press of faces familiar from magazine covers and posters on Ryan’s wall. 

“Spencer Smith,” a giant with a wicked smile says, when he spies them. 

“How does he know me?” Spencer asks from the corner of his mouth and Jon gives him an easy smile and shrugs. 

“Spencer Smith, you are famous,” the giant purrs. “I heard about what you said to Pete. That shit was awesome, bro.” He offers up his palm for a high five and Spencer gives it, breath catching on an embarrassing gasp when the giant grips it tight and yanks him close. “I’m Gabe.”

“Uh. Nice to meet you,” Spencer says, delicately reclaiming his hand. 

“Cute boy you’ve got, Walker,” Gabe says, and pats Spencer’s head when he walks by, and whatever, Spencer’s not that small, okay? 

Somehow telling Pete off was like earning his street cred, or something, because Spencer is inexplicably famous among the crowd that’s gathered in Tom’s apartment. People keep wanting to shake his hand and congratulate him while asking Jon when he expects they’ll be recording. 

“I want to hear these earth-shattering lyrics,” Ryland drawls and Spencer flushes because maybe he talked a little too big. 

Jon keeps a hand in Spencer’s back pocket as he steers him through the crowd and Spencer likes the proprietary feel of it. When Jon gives him a drink, Spencer doesn’t worry about what Ryan would think and finishes it within a matter of minutes, to have it replaced with another. 

They find Tom in the main bedroom, where Pete is holding court and they’re all playing a really messy drinking game, if the soaked bedspread and wet carpet are any indication. Spencer hesitates near the door but when Pete sees him, he just gives him a wry little smile. 

“Spencer Smith!” Pete calls. He pats the bed next to him and Jon gives Spencer’s ass a little nudge. Spencer doesn’t let himself be pushed. He takes his time crossing the room and then stands at the bedside. He crosses his arms expectantly, tilting his hips and he doesn’t miss the way Pete’s eyes rake over his figure. 

“It’s come to my attention,” Pete says, “that I was an asshole the other night.” 

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees, unimpressed. 

Pete laughs and Spencer refuses to be charmed, no matter how fucking gorgeous and famous the guy is. “Spencer. I _like_ you. Sit down, play with us.” 

Spencer vacillates and Jon’s just watching him from the doorway with heavy eyes and a private, knowing smile that makes Spencer’s stomach do flips. He sits down next to Pete and Tom deals him in while Pete makes introductions. 

Obviously Spencer knows all their faces already, but there’s something normal about the fact that Pete’s making the show, anyway. There’s Joe and the Butcher and Mike and Nate, and of course Bill who doesn’t seem to stray far from Tom’s side. Spencer reminds himself to ask Jon about that sometime. Patrick is watching them all with an indulgent grin from a chair at the far side of the room, talking on his cell. It’s all really surreal. 

The Butcher explains the rules and Spencer feels like he’s in that old episode of the original Trek his mother loved, where Kirk keeps making up the rules to the card game as it’s being played. 

“I have no idea what’s going on,” Spencer whispers to Jon, after he’s had to take his sixth shot in a row and Patrick, who’s no longer on the phone, is keeping track of how many drinks everyone is behind. 

“Condoms!” Nate says. 

“Trojan,” Mike says quickly. 

“Durex,” the Butcher says. 

“Um, Lifestyles?” Joe guesses. He’s understandably distracted from where he’s rolling a joint, and Spencer might be more than a little interested in the end results. 

Jon nudges Spencer. “Er. I don’t know. Kimono,” Spencer finally sputters, mentally running down the row of names he’s seen too many times when Ryan had dragged him along for late-night condom runs back in Vegas. 

“Damn it,” Pete says, “that was mine. Crown.” 

Bill gives them all a cool, aloof look and says, “Deep Diver.” Tom calls bullshit while everyone else dissolves into laughter and somehow it ends with Bill doing body shots off Nate and Spencer tries not to snort vodka out of his nose as he finishes the last five drinks he’s meant to catch up on. 

Mike turns up a five of spades and takes five drinks and right around the time the Butcher turns up a 4 and challenges Bill to a game of Questions, Pete puts his thumb down and Spencer’s gotten good at looking for it and puts his own thumb down too while Bill and Butcher are busy shooting back and forth, 

“Are you high?” 

“Why would you even ask me that?” 

“Can I score?” 

“What do you want?” 

“What do you got?” 

“What do you think?” 

“Is that a joint in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?” 

And even as distracted as they are, it’s still Joe who puts down his thumb last and ends up doing the seven shots while the game of questions comes to an end on, “Have you been watching me in the shower?” and lots of laughter all around. 

Pete protests that rhetorical questions aren’t allowed and threatens to go find a copy of Tom Stoppard if necessary and Patrick shuts him up by arbitrarily deciding that Pete needs to finish his cup and those belonging to the people on the left and right of him. 

The game sort of rolls to a halt when Nate passes out face down on the sheets and Joe lights up the joint. Jon doesn’t even flinch when Spencer takes a drag and that’s such a relief because sometimes being Ryan’s best friend means that people automatically assume Ryan’s hang-ups are Spencer’s, too. 

“So you’ve got Jesse doing lead for you,” Pete remarks casually. Somehow he’s ended up slumped against Spencer’s side and Spencer’s trying to decide if he should let him stay or if he should move and make Pete faceplant into the bed. 

“Yeah,” Spencer says neutrally. He still isn’t sure how he feels about Jesse, really, but Ryan seems to be warming up to him, and that’s good enough for Spencer. 

“It’s going to be kind of hard to sign you guys if Ross never talks to me again,” Pete remarks. 

“Is this some sort of test you give, or something, before you sign people?” Spencer asks, passing the joint to Pete. “Be a huge asshole and see how they react?”

“You passed,” Pete says. Patrick punches him hard on the thigh and Pete cringes, sitting up fast. “What, fuck? Look, Spencer, I didn’t realise Ross was gonna react like that, okay? But yeah, if he wants to be on my label, he’s gonna have to learn how to take me. Cause compared to the assholes he’s going to meet once you guys make it? I’m gonna be at the very bottom of the scale.” 

“You want to talk about this, talk about it to Ryan,” Jon interrupts. “Spence is gonna come with me to buy more beer.” 

“I am?” Spencer asks, but he doesn’t put up a fight when Jon tugs him to his feet. All through the game Jon’s been playing with Spencer’s hair and rubbing his shoulders and Spencer’s been feeling the low hum of arousal waiting just beneath his skin. “Maybe I wanted to smoke with them,” he protests, as Jon helps him into his coat. 

“I’ve got weed,” Jon tells him and tugs him out the door. 

It’s a warm night, for a change. Well, if the high forties can be considered warm, but Spencer’s being generous after a winter spent in Chicago. He doesn’t need gloves and there’s no wind, so he figures that’s good enough. Jon takes his hand again on the short walk down the block and the way his thumb keeps stroking across the back of Spencer’s hand is making it difficult to think straight. 

There’s a tiny convenience store on the corner across from a park and Jon buys a six pack of raspberry Smirnoff. When Spencer arches his brow and makes a comment about girly drinks, Jon retorts with a, “They’re for you, Spence,” which makes Spencer bite down on his lip against a pleased grin. 

Spencer starts to head back down the street towards the apartment but Jon hooks a finger in his waistband and jerks him back. Spencer’s stomach drops in a really nice way. “Come play in the park with me,” Jon says. Spencer lets himself be led across the street. 

They’re in a small, residential area and the place is pretty well lit, so Spencer decides not to be nervous about it. Jon sits on one of the swings and when Spencer takes the swing next to him, he passes Spencer a bottle. 

“You know,” Jon says conversationally, “for someone who doesn’t drink very often, you’ve got a really high tolerance.” 

Spencer shrugs, taking a swig from the bottle. It’s pleasantly sweet, but he’s not surprised. Jon knows his tastes by now. “I guess I just have enough self-preservation to know better than to pass out drunk around that crowd,” he says. 

“You think things are gonna be okay with Pete?” Jon asks. 

“I think so, yeah,” Spencer says. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Jon says. Spencer looks at him expectantly but Jon doesn’t say anything for a long moment, producing a joint from his coat pocket and lighting it up. He takes a long drag before passing it to Spencer. He lets the smoke go as a—no doubt practiced—perfect curling tendril. 

Spencer waits until they’ve each had two hits, not pressing, and finally Jon speaks again. “You know, about not telling you guys about Pete, and how I didn’t mean for it to go like that, but it was stupid. I was stupid for thinking I could control it.” 

The thing is, Spencer’s tried to stay angry about the whole thing, because if he felt like it, he could blame this whole situation with Brendon and Ryan on the Jon and Pete thing. But it isn’t fair to put all of the blame on Jon when Ryan has just been epically stupid and selfish. 

“I get why you did it,” Spencer says. “But. Yeah, it was stupid.” He passes the joint back and holds his inhale as long as he can and forces himself not to cough when it burns his lungs. He isn’t sure he’s getting high. Mostly he just feels really drunk. The lights do seem a little brighter. 

“Yeah,” Jon says. “So I told myself I wasn’t going to do it any more.” 

Spencer thinks maybe he missed something and tries tracing the conversation backwards a few steps, replaying it in his mind. “Do what?” he asks. 

“Spence,” Jon says. He’s suddenly standing over Spencer, blocking out the light. His fingers wrap around the chains of the swing just above Spencer’s hands, bringing the gentle swaying motion to a stop. 

“Jon?” Spencer asks. He feels stupid, but his heart is in his throat and he’s craning his head back to look up at Jon, which is the reverse of their usual position. 

“You know how I asked you if there was anything you’d never told Ryan?” Jon asks. Spencer nods his head slowly. “Well, there’s other stuff I never told him. Stuff I’ve never told you.” 

“Like what?” Spencer asks. His heart’s pounding so loud his head aches from it and he thinks _hopes_ wishes that he already knows the answer to his question. 

Jon leans over him and Spencer pushes up to meet him because he’s been waiting too long, and maybe this is only half of what he wants but it’s more than he’d hoped to get. Jon’s kiss is just like Spencer first imagined, back when he saw Jon’s lopsided grin and heard his lisp, before all the unresolved tension and mind games. It’s just Jon, earnest and sweet. 

Spencer breathes in shakily and Jon deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue smoothly against Spencer’s lips until Spencer parts for him. Jon kisses slowly and thoroughly until Spencer feels like Jon’s read every secret Spencer’s ever kept from him. 

“Jon,” he whispers and Jon moves a hand down Spencer’s back, urging him to his feet. Spencer stumbles for a second, their feet tangled together, the height difference abruptly reversed, Spencer’s mouth slanting over Jon’s. Then Jon gets a hand on Spencer’s hip to steady him and the hand on his back slides lower, slipping just under Spencer’s coat and shirt to brush his fingers along the bare skin. 

Spencer wants to push Jon back down on the swing and climb into his lap and just kiss him for _hours_. But he’s willing to acknowledge the impracticality of that. When Jon parts from the kiss Spencer makes a little sound of protest and tries to follow, but Jon says, “Come on,” and Spencer follows.

It’s not that cold but Spencer shivers the whole way back to the apartment. The walk’s longer on the way to than it was on the way from, mostly because Jon can’t stop backing Spencer up against brick walls and sliding a thigh between Spencer’s legs while they kiss. 

By the time they make it back to the party a lot of the guests have left and there’s a group of about ten in the living room fighting over video games and beer. Jon drops the remainder of the six pack on the coffee table and drags Spencer down the hall to a spare bedroom. Everyone’s so wrapped up in the game they barely notice. 

“I used to stay here sometimes,” Jon explains, when he shuts and locks the door behind them. “When I was still doing the band thing, and helping out with tech work and stuff.” 

“Are you ever going to tell me about your other bands?” Spencer asks. He sounds playful, but Jon catches his hand and holds it over his own heart. 

“I’ll tell you anything you want to know,” Jon says. He can’t help but torture himself with what he might have had, if he’d just been honest, sooner. But even if he can’t have both Ryan and Spencer, he’ll do what he has to, to keep Spencer. 

“Later,” Spencer says, and pulls Jon with him towards the bed. The back of his knees hit the mattress and he sits down heavily, undoing Jon’s belt, never letting his eyes leave Jon’s face. 

Jon pushes his hand through Spencer’s hair, brushing it out of his face and using it to lead him into another kiss. Spencer’s fingers are shaking as they undo the button on Jon’s jeans and draw down the zipper and Jon has to break the kiss, going down on his knees beside the bed. 

“Spence, here,” Jon says, tugging at the hem of Spencer’s shirt and Spencer raises his arms for Jon to get it off. Ryan will run around the apartment shirtless when he first wakes up, but Spencer never bares a lot of skin. It’s all soft and pale and though Spencer drops disparaging comments about how he’s fat, there’s not a lot of extra skin on him. Jon sort of likes it, anyway. 

“You too,” Spencer whispers and Jon ducks out of his own shirt as quickly as he can, meeting Spencer halfway for another kiss. Spencer curves his back and wraps his arms around Jon’s neck, pulling them tightly together, skin to skin. There’s a place where Jon fits just right between Spencer’s thighs, held close. 

It’s easy to forget what he’s missing when he’s got Spencer squirming and desperate in his arms. It’s easy to forget that maybe Ryan and Brendon are together right now, without them. It isn’t as if he can do anything about it, but he still can’t shake the lingering desire for what he can’t have. But this, this he can have. 

Jon fumbles with Spencer’s pants, undoes them enough to work his hand inside Spencer’s boxers, and wraps around Spencer’s cock. Spencer bites down hard on Jon’s lip, half-stifling a little whimper. Jon wants to hear that sound a lot more. It sends sparks down his spine, straight to his dick. 

“Spence,” Jon whispers, because he can’t stop saying his name. There are so many things Jon wants to tell him and he’s biting his tongue against them all. He pulls away from the kiss, pressing urgent, messy kisses down Spencer’s neck and chest. Spencer shivers and his hands flutter to Jon’s cheeks, pulling him weakly away from his goal. 

Jon lifts his head slightly at Spencer’s insistence. He presses a kiss to Spencer’s palm and says, “Let me, Spence.” Spencer’s hands flex and he slides them into Jon’s hair, but he stops fighting. 

Spencer’s hard and leaking in Jon’s hand which is really gratifying considering it’s just been a few messy kisses that got him to this point. He bends his head, pressing the flat of his tongue to the head of Spencer’s cock, licking away the beads of moisture there. Spencer shudders, hands tightening in Jon’s hair as he stifles another sound. 

“Spence,” Jon says, kissing the tip of Spencer’s cock, tonguing the underside, loving the way Spencer threatens to shake apart above him. “No one out there can hear us.” The bass of the music in the living room is like a living thing, shaking the whole apartment, and even through the closed door, Jon can hear the lyrics clearly. “Be as loud as you want.” 

“I—I don’t…” Spencer protests, shaking his head. Jon knows that Spencer isn’t shy so much as he is inexperienced. Two girls and one guy and only one of those actually ended in anything other than hand jobs and inexpert fumbling that only qualified as sex in the loosest terms. 

“You ever lie awake when Brendon and Ryan are at it?” Jon asks, pitching his voice low. Spencer’s head jerks up, eyes meeting Jon’s, and they’re dark and unreadable. “You can hear them through the walls,” Jon continues, and Spencer’s cock twitches. Jon smirks knowingly, pumping Spencer idly, flicking his tongue over the head. 

“Brendon does this thing, like a gasp except he sounds like he’s choking on it, and when he whimpers, _Jesus_ , Spence, you know what I’m talking about?” Spencer gives a low moan in response. “And _Ryan_ …those grunts, fuck, he sounds like something out of a porno, it’s so fucking dirty.” 

“Jon, please,” Spencer pants, and Jon spares him a brief smile before closing his lips around Spencer’s cock, sucking just slightly. It’s enough to get Spencer leaking over Jon’s tongue, fast and hot. Jon sinks lower and Spencer isn’t being quiet anymore, whispering pleas and promises between these tiny moans. His hips won’t keep still, thrusting weakly to meet Jon’s mouth. 

Jon wants to be able to watch this, feels like it should be watched. He’s keenly aware of the missing space around them, where Ryan should be and maybe…maybe Brendon, too. It makes him suck harder, go faster, spurred by the stinging in his scalp as Spencer tightens his hold. Jon squirms in place, resisting the urge to touch himself, because if he does it’s going to be over far too quickly. 

For the past seven months Jon’s been imagining what Spencer’s like in bed and this does not disappoint. There’s an edge of desperation as all his careful control just melts away and Jon can’t wait to fuck him, too see Spencer slip the rest of the way. 

Jon’s fingers scramble for more skin but Spencer’s jeans are too tight and the position is all wrong so he settles for taking Spencer as deep as he can and swallowing until Spencer’s moans aren’t quiet any more and he’s practically pulling Jon’s hair out by the roots. 

“Jon,” Spencer gasps. “I’m…you have to…”

Jon pulls off, shooting him a self-satisfied grin, and fists Spencer’s cock, jerking him fast and rough. Spencer whimpers, head tossed back and Jon says, “I’m gonna fuck you so hard.” 

Spencer goes tense all over, head dropping forward and Jon has to kiss him as Spencer shakes through it, coming hot over Jon’s hand and wrist. After a moment Spencer’s kiss loses its edge of urgency, turning soft and even drunk Spencer’s probably the most amazing kisser Jon’s ever encountered. 

“Jon, come up here,” Spencer says. He scoots back on the bed, worming out of his jeans and boxers, leaving them in a heap at the foot of the bed. Jon finishes undressing, aware of Spencer’s eyes on him and the hungry look on his face as Jon bares more and more skin. 

Spencer pulls him in, winding long limbs all around him. Ryan’s so tall and spindly that Jon sometimes misses that Spencer’s taller and he’s got miles of legs wrapped around Jon’s waist. Jon rolls his hips and Spencer grins against his mouth and says, “I thought you were gonna fuck me.” 

“When we’re sober,” Jon promises, because he’s fucked this up enough. He’s not going to keep doing it. He’s going to make Spencer love every second of it. 

“You’re so romantic, Jon,” Spencer teases and rolls his eyes. But once he’s got his hand around Jon’s dick, all the teasing is over. His grip is tight and sure and he does this little twist at the end of every upward stroke that has Jon gasping, face buried in Spencer’s throat. He leaves a mark when he comes, Spencer’s skin blooming red and purple from where his teeth set in. 

When Jon wakes up, Spencer’s pulled the covers over them and Jon is curled up at his back, nose warm and buried in Spencer’s hair. He smells like the coconut shampoo he always uses and his hair looks silky in the light streaming through the blinds. Jon noses through it to get at the skin at the back of Spencer’s neck, letting his teeth graze lightly. 

Spencer stirs and murmurs something unintelligible into his pillow before rolling over, favouring Jon with a sleepy, bemused smile. “Did we actually do that last night?” he asks around a yawn. 

Jon nods, taking in the sight of sleepy, bed-headed Spencer Smith. It’s a good look on him. Enough to make Jon want to keep Spencer in bed all the time. He nudges down the covers to see more skin, running a possessive hand down Spencer’s side before coming to rest at his hip. 

“Jon,” Spencer says. He catches Jon’s wrist but doesn’t try to move his hand. 

“Are you going to freak out on me?” Jon asks. He’s trying to keep his voice light but he can’t help but worry about it. 

“No, but Jon,” Spencer sighs. “We were wasted.” 

“So you wouldn’t have done it sober?” Jon asks. He runs his thumb back and forth over the skin of Spencer’s hipbone and Spencer squirms. 

“Would you?” Spencer counters. 

Jon shakes his head incredulously. “Seriously? Spencer, I was up on you all night. Even before we started drinking.” 

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. “But I’m not sure I’m up to being your consolation prize, now that Ryan’s with Brendon.” 

There’s a moment of stunned silence that follows where Jon can’t even begin to formulate a response. There are so many things he wants to say that are mean and cutting and will effectively put an end to this before it’s even really begun. He’s really tempted to say them because Spencer’s a little bitch and he _wanted_ to hurt Jon with what he said. 

“Aren’t _I_ a consolation prize for you, now that Ryan’s with Brendon?” Jon counters, because it’s the safest response and it still gets a little gasp out of Spencer, his eyes widening in protest. 

Spencer scrambles out of bed searching around the mess of clothing for his jeans and shirt. “Fuck you,” he hisses. “I’m going home.” 

Jon scrubs a hand over his face, forcing himself to wake up all the way. “Jesus, Spence,” he says, levering himself out of bed and grabbing Spencer’s arm. “I didn’t mean it…I don’t even know how I….Spence, stop, please.” 

Spencer falls still, hands on hips, and that look is no less intimidating even if he’s naked. “Spencer,” Jon says, and eases Spencer’s hands out of the way with his own, drawing Spencer closer. This honesty thing was a lot easier drunk. 

“I’m just trying to say that…maybe we both wanted Ryan.” Spencer’s expression gets even stormier, if that’s possible, his eyes practically freezing. “Spencer, you’ve got to work with me here. You can’t say you don’t want Ryan.” 

“I didn’t sleep with you because of Ryan,” Spencer says hotly. “I slept with you because I _love_ you, Jon.” 

“Yeah,” Jon says dully, and can’t even hear himself over the roar in his ears because Spencer just said he _loved him_. “Yeah, but you love Ryan, too.” He doesn’t wait to hear any more protests because they’re only going to make him angry and then they’ll fight, and the last thing he wants right now is to be in a fight with Spencer. 

“All I’m trying to say, Spence, is that I know what it’s like, how hard it is, trying to figure out what to do about it, and maybe Ryan took our choices away from us, but you’re not a consolation prize. I want _you_ , too.” He sounds greedy, but he’s counting on Spencer to understand. 

“Me too,” Spencer echoes and then laughs, a mean little sound. “Well, that’s reassuring. I feel so much better.”

Jon lets out a long sigh through his nose. His hands tighten on Spencer’s hips and he’s ready to try harder, ready to say just about anything. Only Spencer takes a step closer and lets out his own sigh. “I didn’t think I could have either one of you,” Spencer whispers, not looking Jon in the face. 

Jon shakes his head. “No, Spence, I’m explaining myself all wrong. I didn’t want to pick one or the other. I had this plan that involved both of you.” Spencer head shoots up to give Jon an incredulous look and Jon chuckles. “What? Tell me you wouldn’t want that.” 

Spencer wraps his arms around Jon’s neck, pressing his forehead against Jon’s. “So. So you’re okay with what I feel about Ryan?” he asks haltingly. 

“It’s not like I have any room to complain,” Jon says. He traces gentle patterns on the bare skin low on Spencer’s back.

“I really want to kiss you right now,” Spencer says, fingers tracing idly down Jon’s hairline, tucking errant strands behind Jon’s ear. 

Jon smiles, nipping the side of his mouth. “You can kiss me whenever.” 

“I have the worst morning breath,” Spencer protests. “I feel like something died in my mouth.” 

Jon presses their lips together to silence him. “I really don’t care,” he says a few minutes later, when he pulls back and Spencer looks gratifyingly dazed. Spencer smiles and draws Jon into another kiss. 

Brendon isn’t really surprised when Jon and Spencer come home together giggling and spend the evening making out on the couch. Ryan doesn’t look very happy about it, but Brendon’s glad for them, even if there’s a little corner of his brain that protests, saying it wanted Jon for itself. There’s no way that can happen now, and Jon deserves to be happy. 

Ryan goes to bed early that night and Brendon follows, laying his hand on Ryan’s bare back. “What’s wrong?” he asks, and isn’t sure if he expects an answer.

Ryan sighs and hesitates before rolling onto his back. He looks confused, brows drawn together, mouth turned down in a frown. “Nothing,” he says, and Brendon is _so_ not convinced. “They’re good together.”

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, watching Ryan’s face for any clues as to what the problem is. “Jon looked so happy today, and I swear, Spencer smiled more today than I’ve seen him smile since I met him.” It’s true, and when Brendon sees that smile, bright and almost painful to look at, Brendon can’t blame Jon for wanting Spencer. Not that he’ll ever say as much to Ryan, or to any of them.

“Yeah,” Ryan echoes. “Everything’s perfect.” 

Now there are these new boundaries that Brendon knows didn’t exist before he and Ryan became—whatever they are to each other. He’s seen the three of them twined together more times than he can count. It was something to be anticipated, when he came to their place, finding them hugging or piled on the sofa, sharing a chair meant for one or putting their hands in each other’s pockets. 

Slowly Brendon thought he was becoming a part of it, too. Jon’s cuddling, Spencer’s easy, casual touches. Now Jon’s careful to end his hugs after a couple seconds and doesn’t press close to Brendon’s side on the sofa. Spencer’s still fairly casual about his touch, but Ryan gets this look sometimes and tugs Brendon closer and Spencer will roll his eyes, but stop touching Brendon all the same. 

They’ve become two clearly defined sets of two within the group, Ryan always pulling Brendon to one side and Jon pulling Spencer to the other. Brendon can tell from the exasperated looks Spencer shoots him that he finds this all just as ridiculous as Brendon does. Neither of them fights it. 

Thursday is Ryan’s long day at school. Actually, Ryan’s schedule is pretty full between school and work. Brendon ends up spending most of his free time with Spencer, the only one of them who doesn’t have a job. Spencer’s a lot of fun and he’s easy to be around. Brendon doesn’t feel like he’s always on his toes around Spencer, like he is with Ryan, or like he might do something he regrets, like he does around Jon. 

Spencer’s still exploring Chicago and though Brendon no longer feels the need to distract himself, it’s fun to revisit some of the places he went on his free days, and discover new ones with Spencer.

They’ve already been to the aquarium and the zoo, so this Thursday Spencer picks the science museum. “That place is for kids,” Ryan had protested, when Spencer mentioned it over breakfast, and Brendon and Spencer had shared a knowing expression.

They get Dippin’ Dots and wander through the exhibit on the amazing world of insects. “Did you know,” Brendon says, as they pass through a section on wasps, “that there is a special type of wasp that only pollinates fig trees?” 

Spencer arches a brow, but in a _tell me more_ way, not in the _shut up, Brendon_ way people usually do when Brendon starts getting dorky. Spencer actually _listens_ when Brendon goes on for a half hour about jelly fish or something.

“Yeah, it’s really gross,” Brendon says, getting excited. “They live _inside_ the fig and that’s where they lay their eggs and everything and then when the babies are born they eat the fruit until they’re strong enough and the male chews through the skin so the babies can get out, and then he dies still _inside_ the fruit and the enzymes in the fig disintegrate the body.”

Spencer stares at him blankly. “That is fucking disgusting,” he says. 

Brendon wiggles his brow and makes a big show of licking his spoon. “I know, right?”

“It’s sorta like the twisted-wing parasites,” Spencer says. Brendon loves going to these places with Spencer because Spencer’s really smart about science stuff too, and maybe as much of a dork as Brendon is. 

“When they’re in the larval stage they just hang out on a flower, waiting for bee or wasp to come by and then they burrow into it’s body and feed off it’s blood and organs and stuff. They mate from within the body and everything. The females never leave the hosts body. It’s pretty fucking wicked,” Spencer says.

“That is awesome,” Brendon says reverently. “You are the best science buddy ever, Spencer Smith.”

Spencer gives Brendon an almost shy smile, cheeks going red. They spend the rest of the afternoon playing with every exhibit, regardless of whether they were designed for children or not, and speaking to each other in French to the bemusement of everyone else in the museum. 

They’ve been doing it whenever they can when it’s just the two of them, though sometimes they slip up around Ryan and Jon who roll their eyes and throw things at them until they stop. Still, Spencer’s getting a lot better and every time he gets home from French class he hurries to show Brendon his quiz scores. 

Thursday evening Jon has free from work and class and he comes home to find Spencer and Brendon constructing the wooden cut-out insects purchased at the museum. Brendon’s praying mantis is badass, but Spencer’s beetle looks more like abstract art. 

“You two are seriously the world’s biggest losers,” Jon tells them. 

“Whatever,” Brendon says breezily. “You’re just bitter you didn’t get to come play with us.” 

Jon doesn’t bother trying to hide his grin. “Come on. I’m taking Spencer on a date, and you’re coming with us.” 

Brendon darts a nervous look at Spencer, but Spencer is beaming happily at him. He gets to his feet, tugging at Brendon’s arm. “Where are we going?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Jon says and Spencer rolls his eyes when they get to the theatre and Jon buys them tickets for _Eight Below._

“Yeah, Jon, you’re so cool,” Spencer says. 

Not only does Spencer not mind that Brendon tags along for their date, but he shares his popcorn and soda at the theatre, which makes him Brendon’s new favourite person. Brendon whispers as much over the previews and Spencer blushes and gives him a small smile that Brendon can’t help but return. 

Sometimes, when they talk, Brendon thinks Spencer might be flirting with him, and Brendon has begun to hesitantly flirt back. He thinks it can’t hurt anything. Then he catches sight of Jon, sitting on Spencer’s other side, and Brendon remembers why this isn’t allowed. It makes the smile fall from his face. 

The beginning of March sees a break in the freezing weather, but in its place comes torrential rains. Every moment Ryan isn’t at school or work he’s at the kitchen table, working on art projects, as midterms approach. 

Brendon feels guilty about sort of flirting with Spencer, and about going out without Ryan and besides, the weather sucks, so they end up staying in most nights, renting movies and Jon brings home lots of hot drinks from work. 

Brendon and Spencer have said no more ordering out, after Ryan had a mini-freakout over bills and now the two of them make dinner every night while Ryan and Jon make comments about what sweet little housewives they have and Spencer threatens to poison the food. 

The first practice with Jesse singing Ryan’s words is sort of an unqualified disaster. Jesse has come up with some of his own melodies and arrangements and Ryan absolutely refuses to even hear them. After a lot of angry whispering in the corner, Ryan spends the last twenty minutes on the couch pretending the rest of them don’t exist while Jon and Spencer patiently try to work their way through _Shake It Up_ with Jesse.

Jon calls an end to things early and Jesse storms off in a fury. Afterwards Brendon sits up late with Ryan in bed, working out things on the piano and making notes and when they get to the bridge, Brendon doesn’t even think about it before grabbing Jon’s bass and playing the part Ryan’s been discussing. 

When Brendon looks up, in the silence that follows, Ryan’s watching him with wide eyes. “Piano, bass, what else can you do that I don’t know about?” Ryan asks. 

Brendon blushes and goes back to the piano, muttering a soft, “Sorry.” 

“Don’t apologise,” Ryan says and laughs. He scoots up behind Brendon, framing Brendon’s hips with his thighs. Ryan often sits like this when Brendon plays piano, resting his head on Brendon’s shoulder so he can watch. Brendon really likes the feel of it. “I think it’s hot.” 

Brendon gives a weak burst of laughter and just violently hates himself for a minute. He refuses to do this. He refuses to try and ruin the band Ryan’s tried so hard to make just because he wants to be a part of it. There isn’t any place for him, and he has to stop being a fucking show-off. His parents always told him when he played the piano at church functions, no one likes a show-off. 

When Brendon gets his first pay check he drags Spencer and Jon to Target and on Ryan’s break makes him help pick out new clothes. Brendon’s mostly been borrowing out of Jon’s closet for the past week and a half. 

Ryan’s clothes are too long and tight and Spencer’s are too big all over, but Jon is close enough to Brendon’s height, even if he’s somewhat bulkier. It’s okay for work clothing, but when they go out, Brendon looks very obviously like he’s wearing hand-me-downs. 

While Spencer makes Jon go with him to look at shoes, Brendon pulls Ryan into one of the changing rooms and goes down on his knees, delighting in the way Ryan’s eyes go dark and round and his breathing speeds up. Brendon can barely believe himself, how much he’s changed in the past few weeks, how as the drugs have left his system he’s finally felt like himself again for the first time in years. 

“I’m never going to be able to work softlines again without remembering that,” Ryan tells him later and Brendon smiles cheekily and says, “Good.” 

Brendon ends up picking most of his clothing out of the juniors section, and a good sixty percent of it is girls’ stuff, but if the looks Ryan keep giving him are any indication, he approves. 

“My parents would flip if they saw me,” Brendon says, examining himself in the three way mirror. These jeans are doing amazing things for his ass (Ryan loves Brendon’s ass, which Brendon doesn’t really get because he has a _woman’s_ ass, but he’ll indulge his boyfriend) and there’s a rainbow coloured star stitched on the back pocket. 

Ryan picks out a pair of pinstripe pants that he says will make him look taller, and a bunch of shirts, including a bright red one with rhinestone accents that Ryan says will go well with Brendon’s glasses. 

The unforeseen benefit of Brendon’s new wardrobe is the fact that Spencer and Jon can’t seem to stop staring at him, which makes something in Brendon’s chest thrill. Ryan likes tucking his hands in the tight pockets of Brendon’s jeans and jerking him close. 

They get more looks on the street now, too, envious or appraising looks; it makes Ryan happy, Brendon can tell. Ryan places a lot of importance in appearance and Brendon’s come to accept that, and even be indulgent towards it. 

Brendon and Spencer spend a fair amount of time at a music shop near the apartment and Brendon ends up getting a second job there. He gets a bit of a laugh out of the fact that rather than doing his mission work, he’s working at a coffee shop and a music shop. He’s breaking so many rules he can’t even count them all. 

Spencer just gives him an odd look and says, “Well, I suppose the fact that you find it humorous means you’re taking it well.” 

Brendon smiles and bumps their shoulders together and says, “It’s sweet, how you’re worried about me.” Spencer gives him one of those sweet, blushing smiles, and Brendon has to swallow around the lump in his throat. 

By now, Brendon’s companions have noticed the change in him. None of them are around the apartment enough for them to really say anything, but they’ve seen him in his new clothes and they know he’s working instead of doing his mission. Most Sundays they all show up alongside him at the church and no one ever says anything about each others’ indiscretions. 

One night, when Brendon’s stopped by the apartment after work and showered there since no one was home upstairs, Elder Mathis catches him on his way out. Brendon’s heart is in his throat, because if Mathis saw him with Ryan, who knows how this might go. 

Mathis just gives him a grudging smile. “You look happier, Urie,” he says. “Good for you.” 

Brendon isn’t stupid. He knows he can’t keep being this happy. He knows something will happen, eventually. He’ll get caught or he’ll have to tell his parents. Ryan will find someone else or get bored with him. He won’t be able to support himself and he’ll have to crawl back to his family, begging for forgiveness. 

If this is all just going to end in disaster, he wants to take advantage of it. He wants to have as much fun as he can before it’s all over. 

That night he and Spence bake cookies and eat dough until they’re both sick, then make Ryan and Jon do the actual baking part. Brendon fights with Ryan over whether they’re watching _Donnie Darko_ or _Aladdin_ and compromise on _I Heart Huckabee’s_. When Brendon complains about his aching feet, Jon gives him the most amazing foot rub. Ryan doesn’t make Jon stop; he doesn’t even seem to mind. 

Maybe Brendon has low expectations or maybe being raised a Mormon has just made him boring, but it’s the perfect evening. When he and Ryan go to bed, it’s better than before. Every time is better than before. 

When they first had sex, Brendon sort of felt like he could have been anyone making Ryan feel good. Now, when Ryan looks at him and there’s something in his eyes that makes Brendon’s stomach flip, makes him move faster to meet Ryan’s thrusts. 

The words _I love you_ are almost past Brendon’s lips before he realises he isn’t sure that’s the truth. He isn’t sure it’s what he really feels. He comes in a rush, clamping his mouth shut tightly so nothing slips out by accident. Ryan falls asleep quickly, arms wrapped around Brendon like a spider and Brendon thinks, even if it is the truth, it’s better if he doesn’t say anything. 

It will hurt less, in the end. 

Brendon takes Ryan out to an early dinner before band practice, chattering non-stop about this girl at work who’s driving everyone crazy, and about how he thinks he might like to go to beauty school instead of college but his parents will flip. It’s sweet, the way Brendon’s trying to distract him from thoughts of practice, but inevitably conversation leads that way. 

“Jon thinks I was too hard on Jesse last time,” Ryan says over dessert. 

Brendon bites his lip, toying with his spoon. “Jesse’s got a good voice,” he says. There’s something about the way he says it, something off, but Ryan can’t figure out what. 

Because Jesse does have a good voice. A very good voice. Maybe not an excellent voice, but he’s got that stage presence Pete was looking for. “Once he figures out what you want, it’ll be awesome.” Ryan squeezes Brendon’s hand in thanks, but can’t really bring himself to say anything in response. 

“So Brendon and I have been putting together some new arrangements,” Ryan says, when Jesse arrives that evening. “Maybe if we tried with his accompaniment it will work itself out.” 

Jesse just glares at Brendon, which Ryan does not get. Jesse has a lot of animosity towards him for no reason Ryan can understand. “So your boyfriend’s part of the band, now?” he asks. 

Ryan opens his mouth without anything to really say to that, and closes it again quickly. “Well, can _you_ play the piano?” he finally asks. 

“No,” Jesse mutters. “Whatever. Let’s do this.” 

They start with _Lying_ (Ryan had skipped class one rainy Tuesday afternoon to stay in bed with Brendon and Brendon had made him come up with names for most of the songs, Ryan flipping through magazines and perusing his bookshelf for inspiration while Brendon laughed and teased him mercilessly) and Ryan has to admit that Jesse’s voice is appropriately sexy for the tone of the song. 

He catches Jesse glaring fiercely at Brendon and looks, trying to figure out what the problem is, but Brendon is concentrating on his hands moving over the keys, silently mouthing along with the words. 

By the time they get to _Build God Then We’ll Talk_ , however, Ryan’s ready to punch something. Jesse’s sort of at the top of the list because he’s not _listening_ to anything Ryan says about how he wants the songs sung. 

“If you have some perfect way they’re supposed to be sung, why aren’t _you_ singing them?” Jesse challenges, playing idly with the strings of his guitar. 

Ryan bites the inside of his cheek so hard he swears he tastes blood and grits out, “I’m not a singer.” 

“Yeah, and I am,” Jesse answers back. “And these words are ridiculous. Who fucking sings about formaldehyde?” 

Brendon clears his throat and begins tapping out the melody Ryan’s been talking about on the piano, in just the right rhythm. “Like that, maybe,” Brendon whispers. 

Spencer’s eyes narrow in speculation and Jesse’s expression is pretty murderous. When Jesse sings it next, though, it’s right. He still isn’t hitting the high notes, but Ryan will take this one step at a time. 

They take a break and Jon orders pizza. Jesse sits at one end of the sofa, bent over his guitar, working out the beginning of _Time to Dance_ and butchering it so badly that Ryan wants to cover his ears or get up and walk out. Ryan can’t see this ever coming together how he wants it to, how he’s imagined so many times. He can tell from the looks Jon and Spencer keep giving him that he’s being crazy, that he’s expecting too much, that Jesse’s as good as they’re going to get, and if Ryan keeps pushing, Jesse’s going to leave. 

Brendon touches his back and Ryan jerks away from it because he doesn’t want to be comforted right now. He’s a little busy watching his artistic vision crumble before his eyes and wonders if maybe Pete Wentz is laughing somewhere at him. Maybe Pete saw Ryan for the pathetic little wannabe he’s turned out to be. 

“Hey,” Brendon says and Ryan lifts his head, but Brendon’s talking to Jesse. “Hey, can I maybe try something?” 

Jesse sneers at him. “What are you gonna do?” And, okay, so maybe Brendon can’t actually help, because if Ryan can’t manage to get across what’s in his own head, he doesn’t know how Brendon can hope to do it. All the same, something in Ryan snarls at the way Jesse’s treating Brendon. Even if Ryan isn’t actually treating him much better. 

“Well, can I just see your guitar?” Brendon persists, voice soft and unthreatening. Jesse holds his guitar jealously to his chest and Ryan sighs and shoves his own guitar at Brendon. 

“It works different from a piano, you know,” Jesse spits out and something flares in Brendon’s eyes, powerful enough to take Ryan’s breath away. There’s anger and pride and it’s like Brendon’s a different person, so sure of himself and god it’s sexy. 

“Yeah,” Brendon says, voice lower than usual and it makes the hair on the back of Ryan’s neck stand on end. “Thanks. I think I’ve got it.” 

Brendon stands up, fingers moving over the strings making little, accidental sounds. Then he straightens up and begins to play the opening perfectly and Ryan thinks, _there’s nothing he could do that could surprise me any more_ , until Brendon opens his mouth and starts to sing. Just in the first line he manages to steal Ryan’s breath, going from the low notes to the high without a hitch, voice powerful and clear and gorgeous. 

_This_ is what Pete meant about stage presence, Ryan realises. Everything about Brendon screams _rock star_ —his eyes, piercing and knowing, the sardonic curl of his lip, his inflection of the words, the movement of his hips in time to the beat, which he knows, even without Spencer playing it. Ryan feels it deep, shaking him all the way down to the core because _this_ is what he needed. Brendon’s voice is exactly what Ryan didn’t know he’s always needed. 

“What else do you do?” Ryan asks, voice shaky, when Brendon’s voice dies away after finishing the chorus. “Besides piano and bass and guitar, I mean?” 

Brendon usually shrugs away his talent like it’s nothing, but right now he just meets Ryan’s gaze head on and answers, “Drums, cello, accordion.” 

“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Ryan asks. 

“You already had a singer and a drummer and a bass player,” Brendon says. 

“Yeah,” Jesse interrupts. “Glad you realise that.” 

“Shut up,” Ryan snaps. “We were auditioning you, okay? You just fucking failed.” 

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding,” Jesse says. “Jon and I saw Pete last week. He thinks I’m your singer and he was pretty okay with that.” 

“Yeah, well, amazingly enough, I don’t give a shit what Pete Wentz thinks. This is my fucking band,” Ryan says, fighting to keep his voice low and even. “And I think Brendon’s my singer.” 

“Jon, man, help me out here,” Jesse says. He looks about five seconds from throwing his guitar down and jumping at Brendon’s throat. Ryan’s tense all over, waiting for it. He could do with a good fight just about now. 

Jon looks at Ryan and Jesse in turn, and then at Brendon, who he gives the tiniest hint of a smile. “Sorry, Jesse,” he says. “I mean, it’s Ryan’s call when it comes down to it, but even if it wasn’t…I think Brendon’s better suited for us.” 

Ryan lets himself forget about what an asshole Jon is for a few minutes and is profoundly grateful to have him as a friend. 

“Better suited for your whiny, emo bullshit? Yeah, you’re probably right,” Jesse says. He scrambles around for his coat and his guitar case. “I can’t believe I wasted my time on you assholes.” 

“Brendon,” Ryan says, in the silence that follows after Jesse’s slammed his way out the front door, “you better be my fucking singer.” Spencer twirls his drumstick, watching them with a pensive expression. Jon looks like there’s a smile threatening to break out over his face. 

“Ryan,” Brendon says, fast and urgent, “I wasn’t trying to show off. I wasn’t trying to show Jesse up. I didn’t want to take his…” he stops and Ryan knows immediately that Brendon _did_ want to take his place. 

“Brendon,” Ryan says, with affection and exasperation. He wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist, pulling him close and giving him a quick, hard kiss. “You’re an idiot. Tell me you’re my singer.” 

Brendon hesitantly puts his arms over Ryan’s shoulders. “If you…if you really want me to…” Gone is the cocky, seductive man who sang Ryan’s words. It’s just Brendon, small and unsure and beautiful and Ryan feels his heart tripping over itself, beating faster, and he thinks, _I’m in love with him, oh my god_. 

“We really want you to be,” Ryan says and Spencer gives Brendon one of his blinding, beautiful smiles and says, “We really do, Brendon.” Ryan isn’t even jealous of Jon wrapping Brendon in a huge bear hug and welcoming him to the band, officially. “Now,” Ryan says, gathering all their attention. “Let’s try all those songs again.” 

Jon groans and Spencer laughs, but when Brendon sings with them it all falls into place. Brendon has understood all the things Ryan tried to explain to Jesse. There isn’t even a doubt in Ryan’s mind anymore. With Brendon as their frontman, they are going to be famous. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you could sing?” Ryan asks that night, when they’re alone in his room. 

Brendon seems to understand that the question is different from before. More. He gets up on his knees on the bed and he’s roughly the same height as Ryan still standing. “I know how important this is for you,” Brendon whispers, cupping Ryan’s face in his hands. “I didn’t want to mess it up. No matter how badly I wanted it.” 

“Brendon, I…” Ryan says, and has to stop because there’s only one way he knows how to finish that sentence and he refuses to say it. He kisses Brendon. He’s grown accustomed to the sweetness and hesitance of Brendon’s touch; he’s grown to long for it. 

It not that Ryan isn’t a romantic person, because he _is_. He’s just had enough bad experiences that have led him to believe that indulging his romantic side only leads to getting hurt. Yet, something about Brendon made it difficult to think of this as just sex, even at the very beginning. 

When he has Brendon beneath him, shaking and clinging, whispering his name, Ryan thinks that no matter how this whole thing between them began, _it isn’t a mistake._ “Brendon,” he whispers, when he’s close and he can feel Brendon is, too. Brendon opens his eyes and even though Ryan can’t bring himself to say it, he thinks maybe Brendon can see it anyway. 

The first time Jon fucked him, Spencer thought he would never want anyone else ever again. Jon was slow and tender, hands on Spencer’s hips grounding him, making him feel owned. Spencer had known that gay sex was sort of inevitable for him, with his feelings for Jon and Ryan, but he’d never expected to love it, to spend long hours in class or while Jon was at work daydreaming about what new ways they could try it when they were both home. 

This lasts about a week. A week of delirious happiness, even if Spencer’s a little sore by the end of it. Ryan glares at them a lot but Brendon is so sweet about the whole thing, so indulgent. When they go out together and Spencer is distracted and dreamy, Brendon doesn’t call him on it, and even repeats himself five times over until it sinks into Spencer’s brain. 

It’s just that Spencer’s never really had this sort of relationship before. Girlfriends, yes, and everything except the actual fucking part of fucking. He figures, with all the shit he’s had to put up with, listening to Ryan’s failed relationships and sexual escapades, he’s entitled to some fun of his own. 

So he has a week. Most of his afternoons are spent with Brendon who is a ridiculous spaz when he’s off his meds, but more than that he’s clever and bitingly funny. Spencer gets why Ryan’s actually _trying_ with this relationship. 

Then they have practice and there’s _Brendon_ , singing his heart out. As if that wasn’t enough, there’s the way Jon’s looking at him. With a painful, naked hunger in his eyes and Spencer wants to be angry, but mostly he’s just resigned. Because nothing can be normal for them. He can’t even have this one thing, and he was stupid to think he could, when he and Jon admitted from the start that they both wanted Ryan. 

Spencer rolls on his side that night when Jon tries to touch him and wallows in his guilt and anger and betrayal for about a day before Brendon comes in to check on him, crawling into his bed. 

“Spence,” Brendon asks, curling up close to him and brushing Spencer’s hair back from his face. “Are you okay? You need anything?” Spencer hears the concern in Brendon’s voice and looks at his big, worried eyes and thinks, _fuck, me too_. 

It doesn’t really make anything better. It’s just one more thing that Spencer wants that he isn’t allowed to have. In fact, it almost makes things worse because the need he feels for each of them is different. 

Yes, he loves them all, and wants them all, but it’s Ryan’s familiarity and, yes, his bitchiness and his complexity. It’s the way Jon makes Spencer’s heart beat faster and his palms go sweaty and how Jon always knows just what Spencer needs and wants to give it to him, whether Spencer’s willing to accept it or not. It’s Brendon’s unassuming nature and his smile, whether happy or sad or mischievous and the easy affection he gives. 

Spencer finally finds his voice and says, “I’m fine, Brendon.” He cups Brendon’s cheek in his hand, brushing his thumb over the high sweep of Brendon’s cheekbone. 

Brendon’s smile is sad right now, and maybe a little knowing. He puts his hand over Spencer’s, holding it in place. “It’ll get better,” Brendon says, and Spencer is convinced that Brendon knows exactly why he’s upset, every little aspect of it. Then Brendon presses a kiss to Spencer’s palm and gets up and they don’t talk about it any more. 

It does get better. Spencer isn’t the wallowing type—that’s more Ryan’s speed. Spencer is stronger than all of this bullshit. He can’t really fix it to his liking, but he will do what he can. When Jon doesn’t come to his room that night, Spencer goes to his. 

“So,” Spencer says and Jon watches him warily, like he doesn’t know what’s coming, but he knows it isn’t good. “Brendon.” Jon’s eyes close off and Spencer sighs and sits on the edge of the futon. “I didn’t come to fight with you. Look, we can either let this fuck us up, or we can deal with it.” 

“Deal with it?” Jon echoes. 

Spencer feels so far away from him and it’s stupid, when he’s never been closer to another human being than he has been to Jon, this past week. He crawls closer and it’s such a relief when Jon opens his arms and pulls Spencer close. 

“You know,” Spencer says, “when I was a little kid, everyone made it sound easy. You fell in love with one person and you were happy for the rest of your life, and by the time I was six, I knew that Ryan was that person for me.

“Then in high school Ryan started sleeping with all these people and I told myself I just had to be patient. People say it’s normal to date a lot of people before you find the person you wanted to spend the rest of your life with. So I started dating people too and it was okay because I could tell Ryan wasn’t in love. 

“Then we met you, Jon Walker, and I knew it was different right from the start. I’ve been so fucked up over this, trying to figure out what Ryan felt and what you felt and trying to tell myself that I didn’t love you both because that was impossible. It felt like an easy out, to say I loved you both, rather than just deciding. Like, I mean, people who cheat, who say they can’t choose. That makes me so angry. I didn’t want to be like that. 

“I think I get it now. I mean, I don’t think this is normal, but I love the three of you and it isn’t an easy out. It’s the most fucking difficult thing I’ve ever done. Maybe I’ll stop loving them, but I don’t think I ever will, and you deserve to know that no matter what I feel for them, I’m always going to be happy with you. No matter what you feel for them.” 

“Spencer,” Jon says. He tips Spencer’s face back, covering his mouth in a possessive kiss. Every kiss from Jon still makes Spencer feel dizzy and weak in the best way possible. Jon’s hands fumble between them and Spencer helps, struggling to get out of his clothes as quickly as possible. 

Spencer reaches for the nightstand, searching blindly in the drawer, and manages to get his hand around a string of condoms and the lube. Even after a week of doing this every day, sometimes several times a day, Spencer’s body isn’t entirely used to it. 

There’s a little twinge of pain each time Jon slides inside, but Spencer likes the edge of it. He hopes it never goes away. Jon tells him how tight he is, how good it feels, and Spencer wants it to always be so good. 

This time Spencer rolls Jon beneath him and climbs on top. Spencer actually prefers it when Jon takes control, but he knows Jon likes it this way. He rolls the condom down Jon’s cock and covers it in lube, pumping his fist a couple times as Jon thrusts his hips into it. Usually there’s more foreplay, but Spencer just wants Jon inside him, now, and Jon isn’t putting up any fight. 

Jon grabs Spencer’s hips to steady him when he begins to sink down over Jon’s cock, every inch a delicious burn. Jon doesn’t have to say anything. Spencer can see it all over his face, his expression verging on reverence. Spencer’s hands flex over Jon’s chest and he begins to move, rocking slowly. 

When Spencer rolls his hips, Jon’s eyes roll back in his head and he squeezes hard enough to make new bruises over the ones that are fading on Spencer’s hips. It makes Spencer want to move faster, but he goes slower instead, bending to press their lips together. Jon meets his kiss eagerly, one hand sinking into Spencer’s hair, tilting his head to get deeper. 

Jon reaches between them and wraps his hand around Spencer, jerking in time with the lazy thrust of their tongues and they come like that, just easy, unhurried movements and Spencer’s thighs are shaking from the effort by the end, but it’s totally worth it. He doesn’t try to muffle the sounds he makes, high and trembling and Jon’s eyes light up with possessiveness and he follows Spencer, holding his hips and thrusting up hard once, twice, and moans Spencer’s name. 

Later, when Jon has Spencer tucked close, spooning him from behind, placing wet kisses across Spencer’s shoulder blade, Spencer has to ask, “Do you think it’ll get better?” 

Jon hums and brushes back Spencer’s hair to get at his neck. “I think it will get easier,” he answers. “I think no matter what happens it won’t change how I feel about you.” 

What does change, however, is Ryan. It isn’t even a subtle shift. Spencer isn’t even sure what sparked it, but now, instead of being reserved and cold about his relationship with Brendon (at least in public), he’s being affectionate all over the place—holding Brendon’s hand, hands in Brendon’s pockets, playing with Brendon’s hair or kissing his neck and ear, making out with him in the booth when they go out for dinner. 

If Spencer didn’t know any better, he’d think that Ryan’s doing it on purpose. But there’s something really unaffected about the way Ryan’s acting with Brendon that just makes Spencer feel guilty about ever doubting Ryan’s affection in the first place. He’s acting like he’s in love. 

Spencer believes Jon when he says it will get easier. He just wishes it would happen faster.

They’ve rehearsed until Brendon complained his throat hurt and they’re crowded on the sofa watching _Evil Dead_ when there’s a knock at the door. There’s a lot of grumbling all around before Jon finally gets up to get it. 

“Oh,” he says, when he sees one of Brendon’s companions—he never learned their names. “What’s up?” 

“Is Brendon here?” the guy asks. “I thought he’s been hanging out a lot.” 

Jon looks over his shoulder and Brendon has moved out of Ryan’s arms and is sitting, back painfully straight, on the edge of the sofa. “Elder Link,” he says stiffly. He goes to the door, standing alongside Jon. “What’s going on?” 

“Brother Fry called, from church? His daughter, Anna, is in the hospital and they were asking if you could meet them there,” Link says, and Jon doesn’t really like these guys, but he seems sorry to have to tell Brendon this. 

Brendon’s whole face falls and Jon wants to put an arm around him, but he doesn’t know what’s okay in front of this guy. “Is she alright?” Brendon asks. “What happened? Is she going to be okay?” 

Link shakes his head. “I don’t know. He didn’t say. He just asked that you come.” He holds out a piece of paper something written on it. “This is the hospital and room number.” 

“That’s about forty minutes by train,” Jon says. “I’ll drive you.” 

“I’m coming with you,” Ryan says, already running around to get on his shoes and find his coat. 

“Guys,” Brendon says, “I don’t think that’s…” He stops suddenly and Jon knows all the protests he was going to make, about how these are people from church, and what they’ll think when they see Brendon with these strangers. But then Brendon’s shoulders sag and he says, “Please, yes.” 

Brendon is silent the entire ride, his leg jiggling anxiously and Ryan holds his hand in a death grip when they walk into the hospital and ask for Anna Fry. Her room is in the recovery wing, so Jon figures that has to be a good sign. 

Mr. and Mrs. Fry look young and frightened and when they see Brendon they both give him big hugs. “Are these your companions?” Mrs. Fry asks, looking over Jon, Spencer and Ryan. 

“No, they’re. They’re my friends,” Brendon says. Neither of the Frys seem to think this is strange and some of the tension goes out of Brendon’s posture. “What happened? Elder Link didn’t know.” 

Mr. Fry sighs and buries his face in his hands. Mrs. Fry bites her lip and she’s so pale when she says, “She took a bottle of pain killers. We were out for the evening. Jason found her and called the ambulance and they had to pump her stomach. She’s awake now, but she won’t tell us _why_.” 

“We know you spoke to her a few times,” Mr. Fry says. “We were hoping you could talk to her now. Try to figure out what happened.” 

“I don’t think I…” Brendon begins, but he looks at their faces and his shoulders slump entirely. “I’ll try,” he says. 

Ryan obviously doesn’t want to let Brendon go alone, but he lets Spencer drag him to a chair in the waiting room. They watch CNN on mute for forty-five minutes, the first thirty of which Brendon is alone with Anna, the last fifteen after he calls Anna’s parents in to join them. 

When Brendon comes back out alone, he looks even worse than when he went in, eyes rimmed in red, face wan. “I wanna go home,” he says, and doesn’t talk until they’re back at the apartment. Jon makes hot chocolate and Ryan wraps Brendon up in his arms and legs like a blanket and they wait. 

“She asked for my help weeks ago,” Brendon whispers. “It was before we…” He shakes his head. “I was still on my meds and she asked for my advice about being _gay_ and I told her that it was wrong and she had to ask God for guidance and she could never act on it.” 

Brendon laughs, and there’s no humour in it and Jon shares a look with Spencer and Ryan and that they’re just as worried as he is. “She said…she said it was obvious that I was gay and I was a hypocrite and I…I knew she was right, but I swore I’d never act on it, so I left and I stopped going back. 

“She. The girl she likes— _loves_ —she’s just been engaged and Anna didn’t have anyone to talk to because I acted like a _child_ instead of helping her when I could have and I…” He pauses, wiping furiously at his cheeks. There are no tears, but his eyes are red and his skin pale. 

“You know, she said she couldn’t lie about it any more. That she had to tell her parents and they said they didn’t care about things like that, that she was more important to them than what the Church thinks and they loved her no matter what and I thought, even after how much I fucked up with her, I was still envious of her, because my parents will _never_ accept me.” 

“Brendon,” Ryan whispers and Jon thinks _tell him you love him, you asshole,_ but Ryan just hugs him tighter. “We’ll always be here for you. We’ll always accept you, no matter what happens.” 

Jon thinks that’s the end of it. He thinks this whole thing has only made Brendon more determined never to tell his parents about quitting his mission and sleeping with a guy and making a choice to go away for college. 

But it’s Friday afternoon and Spencer has classes until six and Ryan’s working his job at the café. Brendon usually comes straight home after finishing at Starbucks, usually around two in the afternoon, but it’s closer to four when he finally comes through the door and Jon’s off the couch in a second, because Brendon looks _wrecked_. 

“What?” Jon asks desperately, hugging Brendon close. “What is it, Brendon?” 

Brendon shakes his head, tears falling silently down his face and Jon ushers him over to the couch and leaves only for a second to get a box of tissues. “Brendon, what _happened_?” 

“I—” he has to stop, shaken by a new wave of tears. 

“Is it something with Anna?” Jon asks, because he knows about suicidal friends and how even if everything seems okay one minute it can all go to hell the next. 

“No,” Brendon says, and shakes his head again, fiercely. “No.” He takes a deep breath and it’s all shaky when he lets it out, hiccoughing. The tears stop abruptly, but Jon can tell they aren’t finished. 

When Brendon opens his mouth again, he’s calmer, just slightly, but his words keep skipping and stuttering. “I called my parents, when I got home from work today.” 

All the times Jon and Spencer insisted that Brendon should tell his parents eventually, and all Brendon’s vehement protests suddenly make sense. Jon had hoped Brendon was wrong about his parents’ reaction, but it’s obvious that he wasn’t. 

“What happened, Brendon?” Jon asks. He rubs his hand over Brendon’s back in a circle like his mother used to, when he was younger and couldn’t sleep. 

“I didn’t mean to tell them everything. I just wanted to tell them that I couldn’t do the mission any more and that I’d found a job and I planned on staying here,” Brendon says, the words coming out in a jumbled rush. 

“I wasn’t going to tell them about the band yet, or Ryan, because I knew how that would go, but my mother got so upset, saying I wasn’t the son she’d raised any more and my father said I had to go to the bishop right now and tell him what I’d done and ask for his council and accept whatever punishment they gave me, and until I did that and finished my mission, I wasn’t welcome home, and I…” 

Brendon stops and the tears start leaking again, slower. There’s a helpless misery on Brendon’s face and Jon doesn’t know how to make it better. “I told them if I confessed to the bishop everything I’d done, there was no way I’d be allowed to finish my mission, because I was…I was sleeping with another guy, and they…” He shakes Jon’s arms forcefully. 

“I didn’t mean to, I was so hurt and I wanted to hurt them as badly as they’d hurt me, and I knew the second I said it that I couldn’t take it back and my mother just started sobbing and my father said he never wanted to hear my voice again and he hung up. 

“I tried calling back and no one would answer and finally, after the sixth time I tried it was my brother and he wasn’t mean but his voice…I’ve never heard him sound like that. He said I probably shouldn’t try calling back and that dad was going to call the mission house here and tell them and they were going to kick me out of the apartment.” 

Jon doesn’t know what to say in the face of all of this, so he just pets Brendon’s hair and waits when the tears start anew. Brendon goes through half the box of tissues and Jon wonders if he should try to call Ryan, or something, because Brendon needs better comfort than Jon is allowed to give without stepping over boundaries. 

“I can go get your stuff for you,” Jon says. “You don’t have to see anyone from the church or anything. I can get your stuff and bring it here and you never have to deal with that again.” 

“Jon,” Brendon says, his face red, the neckline of his shirt damp with tears. “Jon, please.” He holds out his arms for a hug and Jon wraps Brendon up, drawing him close and tight, and he doesn’t know how it happens, but one minute he’s stroking Brendon’s hair back and brushing tears off his face, and the next they’re kissing. 

It’s just a peck at first, something innocent that can be shrugged off and forgotten easily enough. It’s just closed mouth to closed mouth, a little wet from Brendon’s tears. Then Brendon whimpers and tilts his chin and opens his mouth over Jon’s, hungry and desperate. “Jon,” he pants, “please.” 

Jon isn’t strong enough to say no to that. He hauls Brendon closer, half in his lap and Brendon spreads his legs to straddle him. They kiss fast and sloppy, one kiss bleeding into the next and Brendon’s stopped crying and his hands are fixed in Jon’s hair twisting and tugging. 

“Jon,” Brendon says, pulling back just enough so their eyes can meet without crossing. His lips are red and swollen and his gaze flicks over Jon’s face. “Will you fuck me?” he asks. 

“Jesus, Brendon,” Jon breathes, hands clenching in the back of his t-shirt. “Fuck. Come on.” Brendon follows him into the study, the futon still unmade from where Spencer woke him up this morning with a lazy blowjob and Jon isn’t sure he can do this. 

Then Brendon slips out of his t-shirt, shoving his jeans and briefs to the floor and he’s naked and just starting to get hard and he’s gorgeous. He lies back on the bed, spreading his legs and Jon is halfway out of his own clothes before he has time to think about it. 

Jon slides onto the bed between Brendon’s thighs, pressing him back into the pillow with kisses. There’s still a string of condoms and lube under the pillow from last night and Jon squeezes some lube on his fingers, rubbing to get it warm. He reaches between them, giving Brendon’s cock a few strokes. 

Brendon turns his head out of the kiss and says, “Just fuck me, Jon. Please, I’ve wanted you…I’ve wanted you since that day you gave me a ride.” 

Jon almost asks, _What about Ryan_ , and it’s pure selfishness that keeps him from doing it. He’s Ryan’s friend and he loves him, but he loves Brendon too, and he’s wanted this probably as long as Brendon has. 

Instead of saying anything, he reaches lower, feeling his way to Brendon’s hole and pushing two slick fingers inside. Brendon arches his back off the bed, baring the long column of his throat and all the beautiful, pale skin of his chest. 

Jon lowers his mouth, tracing his tongue down Brendon’s neck and over his collarbone and it isn’t until it’s too late and there’s already a mark that he realises he’s been sucking the same place. 

Brendon works his hips back onto Jon’s fingers and says, “I’m ready, Jon, _please_ ,” and Brendon feels tight and Jon doesn’t want to hurt him, but Brendon’s eyes are wide and imploring and the way he catches his bottom lip between his teeth makes Jon want to do all sorts of dirty things. 

“Yeah,” Jon breathes, and fumbles a condom on, fingers shaking. He’s aware of Brendon’s eyes, heavily lidded, following his movements and there’s something sexy about that. 

“Come on, Jon,” Brendon whispers, drawing a toe up the back of Jon’s calf. Jon sinks between Brendon’s thighs, lining up and pushing in. Brendon whimpers, and he digs what Jon is sure will be bright red welts down Jon’s back and cups his ass. “Fuck me.” 

Jon shoves in the last little distance, hard and Brendon whimpers his approval and all the little sounds Jon’s heard through the walls, he’s allowed to hear them firsthand. He’s the fucking reason for them. That thought alone spurs him into action, setting a fast, hard pace. 

Brendon keeps begging for it harder and faster and as hard and fast as Jon can manage doesn’t seem enough. He pulls out and Brendon cries out in protest, trying to tug Jon back in with hands and legs. “Get up on your hands and knees,” Jon says and Brendon scrambles to do as he’s told. 

Jon has fantasies about Brendon’s ass. He takes his time with it now, running his hand over the swell of the cheeks, grabbing a handful and kneading. Brendon makes a keening sound and shoves his ass back. Jon parts him and thrusts back in, fingers digging in and there will be marks. There will be no way Brendon can lie about what they’ve done. 

It’s easy to give Brendon what he wants like this, Jon pulling Brendon’s hips back to meet every thrust. Brendon braces his hands on the futon frame and pushes back on Jon’s cock and the sounds he’s making, Jon can’t tell if they’re good or bad or some mixture of the two. The futon is creaking in protest and it’s obscene and Jon thinks that in all the times he imagined being with Brendon, it was never like this. 

Jon reaches for Brendon’s cock but Brendon jerks away and says, “No, just like this.” Jon just fucks him harder, even though his lungs are protesting and his ankles ache from the way he’s pushing forward; he doesn’t care. He’s close, but he makes himself wait until Brendon’s there. 

When Brendon comes, his entire body shudders, the long, elegant line of his back arching like a cat’s. He cries Jon’s name and Jon is only a few thrusts behind him, hips stuttering to a halt deep inside. 

It’s growing dark inside the room which means it’s close to six. Spencer will be home and Jon doesn’t know how to explain this, but he knows he can’t lie to Spencer about it. Jon falls to the mattress at Brendon’s side and tugs Brendon close with an arm around his waist. Brendon is limp in his arms, muttering something under his breath. 

Brendon yawns, face in Jon’s throat. Jon rubs his hands down Brendon’s back and tries to figure out what to say. He has no idea what you say in this situation. He’s not used to being a cheater and Ryan has a history of being hurt just like this. 

“I have to tell them,” Jon whispers and Brendon doesn’t put up any argument. “Ryan’s never going to talk to us again.” 

Brendon goes tense for a second then relaxes again. “He only ever slept with me to begin with to get back at you,” Brendon says. “He won’t care about losing me except that he lost me to you.” 

“I don’t think that’s true,” Jon argues. “He may have started it to get back at me, but he cares about you, Brendon.” It’s true and Jon knows it and it makes him sick to think he’s just done to Ryan what Ryan did to him. “This is going to hurt him a lot. Do you even care?” 

“Of course I care,” Brendon spits out, sitting up. “I—I just told my parents I’m gay. I just got disowned, Jon, and then I realised I did it because of Ryan and no matter what I feel for Ryan, no matter how much I lo—no matter what, it doesn’t matter because he was just fucking me to make you upset and I _love_ you, Jon. I want to be with someone who loves me back.” 

Jon’s worried Brendon’s going to start crying again and his anger just melts away. He gathers Brendon close again and lies back down with him. 

“What about Spence?” Brendon asks, voice rising with each word. “Oh God, Jon, I didn’t even think. I never wanted—you and Spence—I didn’t mean to.” 

“Brendon,” Jon says firmly. “Calm down. Okay. We’ll deal with this.” Jon thinks of Spencer telling him they’d deal with their feelings for Brendon, and he doesn’t think this is what Spencer had in mind. 

“You need to get a shower and then we’ll wait until they get home and we’ll talk to them,” Jon says. Brendon nods and gets up silently. His face is so sad and resigned that Jon has to stop him, standing and taking his wrist. “Brendon,” he says, “you are with someone who cares.” 

Brendon gives him a smile that’s equal parts happiness and misery and Jon kisses him, soft and slow, until his breathing calms again. 

Brent sends Ryan an email, like he does sometimes, keeping him updated on Vegas, and how he’s doing at school, and how he and his girlfriend are planning on getting a place together in the summer. 

Ryan writes back, answering all the small talk, and then writes, _We finally found ourselves a singer. He’s pretty fucking awesome. Funny story, he’s ex-Mormon._ He doesn’t think about it for another day or two until he checks his email again at the library between classes, and when he does, he just imagines it will be an I-told-you-so from Brent. What it says makes Ryan’s breath catch a little painfully in his chest. 

_Whatever_ , Brent writes, _brendon was fucking awesome 2 if ud just gave him a chance._

Ryan’s fingers feel a little numb as he fumbles with his phone, but he needs a more immediate answer than what email will give him. He types out a text with a ridiculous amount of errors, demanding to know who Brendon is. 

Brent answers almost immediately, and if a text can be annoyed and give the impression that it’s author is rolling his eyes, this one succeeds. _brendon urie. the guy i wnt 2 skool w/idiot._

Ryan taps out his response with shaky hands, asking, _Did you tell him about us? What did you tell him about us?_

_jesus_ , comes Brent’s response, _wtf dude i didnt tell him shit_

All through work that afternoon Ryan argues with himself over what to do. His stomach twists itself into knots as he thinks up excuses or lies he could tell. A little voice in the back of his head keeps asking, _why do you even have to tell him in the first place?_ That makes him feel even worse. 

Brendon deserves to know. There are so many things Ryan has done to Brendon that haven’t been fair, but he’s told himself he’s going to make up for each and every one of them, starting with this. This first wrong he did by Brendon, without ever knowing him. 

Sometimes Brendon will stay up late, unable to sleep and Ryan will get him to talk about what’s bothering him. It is, inevitably, something to do with church. Brendon’s spoken of how difficult it was for him, when he first started doubting his religion, how he’d had no friends to help him. Ryan realises that was happening right around the time Brent met him and invited him to the audition for the band. 

Ryan just wants to kick himself over missing out on Brendon’s voice for the past several years, wondering where they’d be now if he’d sent Pete their songs with Brendon singing them. But mostly he wonders how different a person Brendon would be. Would he be happier, more confident? 

He calls Spencer on his break and tells him and Spencer, who at the time argued with Ryan and said they should give the kid a chance now is supportive and understanding and promises that everything will be okay. 

Ryan tamps down on any feelings that inspires in him. He’s not going to fuck up with Brendon, not now, not just because he’s maybe been a little bit in love with Spencer for thirteen years and that’s done now. That opportunity is gone now. Brendon is here now. 

Spencer meets him at the grocery store and helps him pick up a few things they need, as well as a block of Velveeta so they can make Brendon’s favourite pasta when they get home. Ryan buys a roll of the slice and bake cookies Brendon loves, printed with a red heart, on sale left over from Valentine’s Day, even though Spencer makes fun of him for being romantic. Brendon’s his boyfriend; Ryan’s allowed to be romantic. 

Brendon and Jon are sitting on the sofa, shoulders tense, hands clasped in their laps, eyes straight ahead when Spencer and Ryan walk in the front door, juggling grocery bags. Ryan shoots Spencer an uneasy look, thinking, _how could Brendon already know,_ and sets the bags aside nervously. 

Brendon’s eyes go wide and he looks on the verge of tears. Ryan hurries over to his side. “Brendon, what is it?” he asks, half kneeling on the floor beside him. He takes Brendon’s hand and Brendon gives it, though it hangs limp in Ryan’s grip. “Brendon, what?” 

“We need to talk,” Brendon says, and his eyes flick to Spencer. “All four of us.” 

Spencer comes to stand at Ryan’s shoulder. “What is it?” Ryan asks, and has a hard time getting the words out, sort of irrationally terrified of what Brendon might say. Have his companions found out about them? Have Brendon’s _parents_? 

“We…” Brendon trails off, gesturing between Jon and himself. Ryan follows the movement and furrows his brow.

“Fuck,” Spencer whispers, and he always figures things out first. Just this once Ryan would like to be not the only one left in the dark. 

“What?” Ryan demands more steadily. 

“We didn’t mean for it to happen,” Jon says evenly, but Ryan doesn’t take his eyes off Brendon’s face, pale and red-eyed, like he’s been crying. 

“Didn’t mean for what to happen?” Ryan says between gritted teeth. Spencer touches his arm and Ryan shakes off the touch.

“Brendon was really upset,” Jon says. “I came home and—”

“Just fucking _tell me_!” Ryan snaps. 

“We fucked,” Brendon says and Jon flinches. 

Ryan’s hands release Brendon’s and Brendon’s fall back to his lap like dead weight. A sensation like ice trickles down Ryan’s spine. “I—” he shakes his head, trying to collect his thoughts. “I don’t think this is very funny,” he finally says. 

“We’re not joking,” Brendon sighs. Ryan’s eyes dart over Brendon, taking him in, really noticing things for the first time. Like the bruise peaking out from the collar of his shirt that Ryan knows he didn’t leave. He remembers all the marks he leaves on Brendon’s body. 

It feels as though he’s been backhanded, the force of it driving him to stand too quickly. He trips over his own feet and Spencer catches him, stands him upright. There’s a look of grim determination on Spencer’s face, directed at Brendon and Jon. 

“Spence,” Jon says, voice low and Spencer lets go of Ryan’s arm to go to Jon. 

“I’m not angry,” Spencer says and the worst thing is that Ryan can tell he means it. Jon and Brendon have betrayed both their trust and Spencer isn’t even angry about it. He sits at Jon’s side and puts a reassuring hand on Jon’s neck. 

“Oh my god,” Ryan whispers. “I can’t...” His mind is racing with all sorts of things that don’t make any sense. All he can feel is a cold, rigid fury building, threatening to say and do things that will make any sort of reconciliation impossible. Not that he wants any reconciliation. 

“Ryan, please,” Brendon says, “you have to let me explain.” There’s pain on Brendon’s face and a little disbelief. Ryan thinks, wildly, _did he think I wouldn’t care_? 

“I don’t want to hear anything you have to say,” Ryan says. His voice sounds distant, like he’s detached from his body, watching this whole thing from above. He stumbles backwards towards the door and Brendon gets to his feet. 

“Ryan, you have to understand,” Brendon says urgently. “I spoke to my parents today—”

“I don’t care,” Ryan says. He keeps his voice even and cool. “You couldn’t say anything that would make this better. You spoke to your parents today and that meant you had to fuck Jon? I would have…” He feels stinging at the corners of his eyes and he can’t tell if it’s from anger, or disbelief, or something else entirely. 

Brendon reaches for him and Ryan jerks back violently, falling heavily against the door. “Don’t fucking touch me,” Ryan hisses. “Don’t ever…” He feels behind himself blindly, finding the knob and wrenching the door open. 

There’s nowhere for him to go, but he hits the street anyway, walking as quickly as he can away from the apartment, no destination in mind. It’s cold again, but the rain has let up for once. 

The wind is cold on his face and he puts his hands up to warm his cheeks. He keeps his eyes open wide, keeps them dry. He’s not going to cry over stupid Brendon Urie and fucking Jon Walker. 

He stumbles into a bar several blocks from the apartment. This close to the university, the place is packed; the only seat left is a stool at the far end of the bar, tucked against the wall. He lays his notebook out in front of himself to discourage anyone from trying to talk to him but his mind is absolutely blank. He couldn’t write now, even if he wanted to. 

It’s several minutes before it even actually hits him, and then it hits hard. Jon’s betrayal isn’t all that shocking, given all that’s passed between them. Ryan isn’t exactly proud of what he’s done to Jon and he should have expected some sort of retaliation. That’s how their game has been played from the start, little jabs and looks, using other people to get under each other’s skin. 

But this…taking Brendon like this…Ryan’s lungs hurt when he thinks about it, making it difficult for him to breath. He puts his head in his hands and makes himself calm down, trying to figure it out. Maybe the fact that Jon hadn’t told them that he knew Pete should have been a sign, but Ryan had never dreamed Jon could ever descend to such unplumbed depths of sheer spitefulness and cruelty. 

This isn’t just about hurting Ryan—as if it isn’t enough that he’s taken Brendon from him, he has to cheat on Ryan’s best friend at the same time. Even if Spencer says he’s okay—even if he _is_ okay with what Jon and Brendon have done—Ryan refuses to be okay with it. Sure, he’s done shitty things to Spencer, but never on this scale. Why would Jon start with Spencer just to cheat on him a week later with Brendon? 

And _Brendon_. Ryan takes another deep breath and lets it out as slowly as possible. Brendon, who Ryan’s only know for a few months, yet has somehow come to mean as much to him as Jon, as much as _Spencer_. Brendon, who was supposed to be just another point against Jon. Who listens when Ryan is upset and knows just how to touch him when speaking can’t help. Who understands Ryan’s words and gives them a voice. 

Ryan can’t imagine never speaking to Brendon again, never hearing Brendon’s voice again, or feeling Brendon’s skin pressed against his. It makes him sick to his stomach even to think of it, like _he’s_ the one who’s been cheating. The mere thought leaves him laughing incredulously. 

The thing is, Ryan can’t figure out why Brendon did it. Brendon was the one who wanted to call them boyfriends, the one who practically moved into the apartment, the one always reaching for Ryan’s hand in public. Maybe Ryan’s never actually said that he loves Brendon, but he thought Brendon knew. He thought maybe Brendon felt the same way. There have been times when he could have sworn the words were on Brendon’s lips, waiting to be said. 

Of all the fucked up relationships Ryan’s had, of all the people who have disappointed and hurt him, he never would have thought _Brendon_ would be capable of cheating on him. Brendon with his goofy smile and his cuddling and whispered secrets, Brendon, who’s still trying to deal with the fact that he’s had gay sex with _one_ guy, torn apart by guilt over what his parents will say and the lingering doubts associated with being raised Mormon. 

“Kid, you gonna have something to drink?” the bartender asks, on her third round of the bar. Her name tag reads “Laura” and she’s pretty, in a scene sort of way—hair dyed black and bleached yellow, side part swept over her forehead, eyes lined thick with black, lip pierced. She doesn’t look much older than Ryan, and Ryan would like to know where she gets off calling him a kid. 

“Something strong,” he says. 

The bartender looks him up and down but doesn’t ask for his ID and she comes back a moment later with something the scent of which makes Ryan’s nose hairs sting and his eyes water. “You sure that’s what you want?” the girl asks, arching a brow. 

“It’s perfect,” Ryan says, grinning sharply at her, and downs as much as he can in a single gulp. It’s almost okay, until he swallows, and then it burns its way down his throat, making him grimace. He refuses to cough. 

The bartender chuckles and Ryan blinks up at her. He thinks about fucking her, knows he could, from the way she’s eyeing him. A month ago, if he’d stumbled into this bar instead of Brendon’s apartment, Ryan would have fucked her, and then he wouldn’t be in the mess he’s in right now. 

Three drinks later, she stops charging him and with the amount of alcohol in his system, fucking her seems like a really good idea. Laura goes on her break, shooting grins at Ryan over her shoulder, and he’s more than a little wobbly on his feet when he follows her into the staff bathroom. 

It’s dirty and dingy but there’s just a single toilet and the door locks and she says no one will be bothering them for at least ten minutes. The alcohol is coursing through his veins, making it difficult to see straight, let alone think straight. 

Laura undoes his pants and pulls his dick out, giving it a few jerks before rolling a condom down his length. She pushes her skirt up around her waist and hooks a leg around Ryan’s hip. She’s short, but she’s tiny and it’s easy to lift her up a little and thrust in. 

He doesn’t last long; he’s drunk and messy with it and she keeps making these breathy little sounds and tickling the back of his neck with her fake nails. He comes with a groan and almost calls Brendon’s name. 

Before he stumbles out into the night, Laura adds her number to his phone and gives him a kiss. He turns his face away from it, but she doesn’t seem to notice. “Give me a call sometime,” she says, and Ryan waits until he’s a couple of blocks away before he erases her number. 

He gets sick in an alley a few blocks from the apartment and stands against the wall until he gets his breathing under control and is certain that he won’t be sick any more. He still feels drunk, which is stupid because he’s sure there’s nothing left in his stomach. More than that, he feels sick with himself, like fucking Laura was somehow cheating on Brendon, even though there’s nothing left between them for him to cheat on.

Spencer isn’t quite sure how it’s fallen to him to pick up the pieces of Jon and Brendon’s indiscretion, but he finds himself hugging Brendon as he freaks out. Spencer tries to be reassuring to him, but there isn’t much he can promise beyond, “Ryan will be back, Brendon.” 

“I was so stupid,” Brendon says. “I thought he didn’t…I knew he did, but I told myself he didn’t.” 

“Didn’t what?” Spencer asks, pushing Brendon’s hair back from his face. 

“Why are you being nice to me after what I did?” Brendon asks. 

Spencer gives him a small smile because he’s going to be okay with this, no matter what. No matter how badly it hurts that Jon and Ryan and Brendon seem to keep falling into these things with one another and Spencer’s left struggling to be included, feeling as though he’s on the outside. 

“Do you love Jon?” Spencer asks. 

Brendon sighs and looks uncertainly from Spencer to Jon and back. “Yes,” he says. 

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “Then I can’t be mad at you. I can’t be mad at him, because if you’d come to me, I probably would have done the same thing.” Except that he wouldn’t have hurt Ryan like that. _Couldn’t_ have, which is why he’s fought so hard to keep from even _flirting_ with Brendon. 

“All the same, it might be a good idea if you sleep at your own place tonight,” Spencer says. 

The look on Brendon’s face, tragic and scared, makes Spencer hug him tighter. “It’s what I tried to tell Ryan,” Brendon says. “I told my parents. I told them all of it, about my mission and being with Ryan. They said they were going to call the mission house. My companions probably already know. I’ll have to go get my things…I don’t know what they’ll say to me.” 

“Brendon,” Spencer says and tries to figure a way to ask delicately. Then, he thinks, given the situation, maybe delicacy isn’t really required. “Why would you tell your parents about Ryan, knowing that you were risking everything, only to cheat on him with Jon?” 

Jon, who’s been silently watching all of this, reaches for Brendon’s hand. Brendon takes a shuddery breath and says, “Before Ryan, I thought if there was a guy that could get me to break my rules, it would be one of you three, and Jon was there that first day I forgot my medicine and he was so wonderful. I don’t think I’d have stopped taking the pills if it wasn’t for meeting up with him that day and I thought that…”

Brendon pauses, cheeks red with a blush, but when he speaks again, he sounds more determined. “I was greedy and I wanted it, so I told myself that it was alright because Ryan wouldn’t care anyway.” The expression on his face makes Spencer feel inexplicably guilty. 

“Okay. Just, maybe you should lay low for the next few days. Stay out later, go straight to Jon’s room when you get back. Give Ryan a chance to cool down. He’s probably going to say a lot of really horrible things,” Spencer says. 

When Ryan is in the mood for it, he’s the most creatively vicious person Spencer’s ever met, and Spencer’s been on the receiving end more than once. He’s usually worse with people he actually cares about, which is more fucked up than Spencer sometimes knows how to deal with. 

“I deserve whatever he says and does,” Brendon says. His voice sounds a little hollow. “He’s not going to forgive me for this, no matter what I do, is he?” 

Spencer doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to. Brendon nods resignedly. “I’m going to make dinner,” Spencer says, because he needs to have something to do, other than sitting here listening to this and growing more and more morose with each word. 

Jon goes to get Brendon’s things from his apartment and Brendon trails after Spencer into the kitchen. Brendon sees the things—the ingredients Ryan bought for his favourite dinner, the roll of cookies with the hearts and he just folds in on himself. 

Spencer hugs him, rubs soothingly at Brendon’s back. He doesn’t say it will be alright, because they both would know it was a lie. He presses a kiss to Brendon’s temple and Spencer hates his life with a vengeance. 

Brendon, exhausted from crying, passes out before dinner’s finished and Spencer is left alone with Jon, and doesn’t know how to talk to him. 

“Are you really not angry?” Jon asks. 

“I’m not angry,” Spencer says wearily. 

“Spence, you can tell me. You can be mad at me. I fucking deserve it.” He looks so sincere and desperate, like he wants Spencer’s anger. 

“But I’m not,” Spencer says. He wants to reach out, but he doesn’t know if that’s still allowed. “We were both honest about our feelings for Brendon.” 

“You’re okay that I acted on them?” Jon demands. It’s sort of ridiculous that his voice is raising, like he’s the one with something to be angry about. 

Spencer shrugs. “What do you want me to say, Jon? I’m not mad at you. I’m hurt. I’m trying to figure out why it is that the rest of you seem to just get what you want without even trying and I’m left to pick up the pieces each time.” He tries not to sound bitter when he adds, “I just wish you would have thought of Ryan.” 

Objectively, Spencer knows he should be angry on Ryan’s behalf. Ryan’s been cheated on more times than Spencer cares to consider right now, but Spencer never thought that Brendon would be another one on that list. In total contradiction to his best friend duties to kick Jon and Brendon’s asses, Spencer only feels regret and a dull stab of anger towards Ryan. 

“I’ve got a lot of homework,” Spencer says, after dinner, and locks himself up in his room. The walls are so thin, he hears Jon going into his own room and the soft murmur of voices, so he puts on his headphones and reads for two hours without taking anything in. 

Spencer is still up when Ryan makes his way home. He comes out into the hall when he hears the front door close. When Ryan comes down the hall, Spencer can tell just by looking what he’s been up to. 

“What?” Ryan asks, tone belligerent. 

“Ryan,” Spencer says, weary. “Are you _drunk_?” 

“I don’t want to talk to you right now,” Ryan says. 

“And what the hell is your problem with me?” Spencer asks. 

Ryan pauses at his door and gives Spencer a derisive sneer. “Do I really need to spell it out for you?” he asks. 

“You mean because I’m willing to discuss things like an adult instead of running out, getting drunk and having sex with some stranger?” Spencer asks. There’s a hot rush of anger and adrenaline in his veins, familiar from hundreds of fights with Ryan, but sharper somehow, too. 

“Yes, you’re so much more mature than me,” Ryan says. “You’ve been so grown up about the whole thing, really, taking up with Jon in the first place. I guess you knew then that it was inevitable he’d stray when offered something better.” 

“I guess it’s the same way you knew Brendon would leave you once he realised you were only ever using him in the first place, and he could be with someone who actually _loves_ him,” Spencer says. It doesn’t help with the anger and hurt, because Ryan knows him too well, knows how to say all the things that are true and will hurt the worst. 

It isn’t even satisfying to see the look of pain that flashes over Ryan’s face before he schools his features, giving Spencer a sharp, mean, knowing look. “That’s right,” he says, “I didn’t even love him. How does it feel when you _do_ love the guy who cheats on you?” He doesn’t wait for an answer, slamming his door shut behind him. 

Ryan always leaves fights unresolved, too angry or too cowardly to finish them. Spencer is left feeling dizzy from unused energy and all the things he’s left unsaid. He’s half-tempted to shout them through the door, but that’s more Ryan’s style, and besides, Spencer doesn’t want to give Ryan the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten so far under Spencer’s skin. 

Instead, he takes a long, hot shower, water burning his skin and it still doesn’t help. His skin is bright red in the mirror, and he still wants to punch something. Ryan, or even Jon, he doesn’t care right now, just that Ryan’s right and maybe Spencer can’t blame Jon for what he’s done, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. 

There’s a sliver of light coming from his room, faint, like from his reading light, which he knows he didn’t leave on. Brendon and Jon are sitting on top of his covers, heads bent together, whispering. Spencer pushes the door all the way open and they fall silent, looking up at him with big eyes. Spencer sort of hates his life. 

“What are you doing in here?” Spencer asks. He just wants to fall asleep and stay that way for a year or two. 

“We heard you fighting with Ryan,” Brendon says. 

“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly anything new or earth-shattering,” Spencer says dryly. “You guys can go back to sleep. There isn’t going to be any more yelling tonight.” He feels, absurdly, like a parent who’s been fighting with his spouse, now soothing his children. He _really_ hates his life. 

Brendon bites his lip and wraps his fingers around his toes, looking like a big child. He and Jon share a look. “Spence, you were so great earlier,” Brendon says. “I was so messed up, and I didn’t think about what I was doing, and then when I realised that I might lose you, along with Ryan…”

Spencer really doesn’t feel like hearing what a great, understanding guy he is. “You aren’t going to lose me,” he says wearily. “I am actually a separate person from Ryan, with thoughts and opinions of my own.”

“My point is,” Brendon goes on, undeterred, “that I was so upset and distracted, I wasn’t really hearing everything, you know?” 

Spencer doesn’t know, but he nods anyway. “When you said that you’d have done the same, with me,” Brendon says. 

Spencer just wishes he’d shut up. He wishes he could go back and start this whole day over again, and make sure this mess never happened. “I was just trying to—” he starts, but Brendon shakes his head and speaks over him. 

“I wasn’t thinking about it then, but later I realised what you had said. What you meant.” Spencer waits silently, even though he wants to stop this. “I think you misunderstood me. I wasn’t trying to take Jon away from you.” 

“I know that,” Spencer says, “that’s why I’m not angry.” 

Jon huffs a frustrated sigh. “I still don’t think you understand,” he says. He stands and grabs both of Spencer’s hands in his, drawing him closer. 

“Remember when I told you that you weren’t a consolation prize?” Jon asks. “I wasn’t just saying that. I want Ryan and I want Brendon, and I want you, too. I wasn’t just using you. I know it was selfish and stupid, what Brendon and I did, but I wasn’t choosing Brendon over you. You can tell me I’m a greedy asshole, and I know it, it’s true, but I want both of you.” 

Spencer opens his mouth only to find he has nothing to say. Part of him—a large part—is ready to be really fucking angry and land that punch he’s been thinking about since his shower. Because Jon is a greedy asshole, and does he think Brendon’s stupid enough to fall for this shit? Does he think _Spencer_ is? This is the sort of game you try to play with silly little sorority girls, and it’s plain insulting that Jon is trying it here. 

Yet, there’s a smaller part whispering impossible things, and that’s the part that Spencer finds himself listening to. It’s saying that maybe Jon isn’t suggesting what Spencer thinks he is. Maybe Jon’s suggesting something else. Messier, more complicated and potentially disastrous. 

Spencer looks Jon in the eye and Jon nods slightly. His fingers tighten around Spencer’s for a second. The two of them look at Brendon, who’s watching them with wide, anxious eyes. He looks as if he isn’t entirely certain what’s going on, but he’s silent, waiting for them. 

Spencer can think of several reasons that this is a bad idea, from his best friend and Brendon’s ex-boyfriend, right down to the fact that Brendon is still new to relationships and he’s just come out to his parents, been disowned, and kicked out of his home. He’s emotionally fragile, and Spencer doesn’t want to take advantage of that. 

Spencer takes his hands back from Jon. “This is going to make things worse,” he says, but it’s barely a protest, and Jon knows it. 

“Things can’t get any worse,” Brendon whispers, tugging at his big toe. His lip wobbles when he speaks, like the tears are threatening to come back, and Spencer can’t bear to see that again. 

Spencer thinks, _things really can’t get any worse at this point_ , and maybe that’s a lie, but he wants this so badly. He sits on the edge of the bed and reaches for Brendon’s hand. Brendon turns his palm up to lace his fingers with Spencer’s and gives Spencer a hesitant, sad smile. 

“Is this what you want?” Spencer asks. 

Brendon shrugs with one shoulder. “I don’t. I can’t…I’ve been told all my life what I’m supposed to want, and lately I’ve been trying to figure out what it is that I _actually_ want. It’s so different from everything I’ve ever been told, I don’t even know how to explain it. 

“I’m sort of freaked out by it, actually,” Brendon says. He sinks toward Spencer, angling for a hug, and Spencer wraps an arm over Brendon’s shoulders. 

“Now that I’m actually allowing myself to think about it, I’m downright terrified. But I’ve lost a lot, and I don’t want to lose this, because I’m too…” Brendon breaks off, yawning, and tries again, “because I’m too scared to say anything about it.” 

Spencer presses a kiss to the top of Brendon’s head, rubs his cheek against Brendon’s soft hair. It’s been growing out of the awkward, close cut he had when he first moved in and it suits him much better. All the changes look good on Brendon, make it difficult for Spencer to ignore what he wants. 

Brendon tips his head back and lays one hand against Spencer’s cheek. “Can we?” Brendon asks. His face is close and his eyes are on Spencer’s mouth. It’s impossible to misunderstand what he’s asking. 

Spencer gives in, closing the distance between them. Brendon’s lips are soft and hesitant and the kiss only lasts a few seconds before Brendon’s yawning again. Spencer laughs quietly and Brendon blushes and whispers, “Sorry,” lips brushing Spencer’s as he speaks. 

“Maybe we should talk about this in the morning,” Spencer suggests. He unwraps his arm from around Brendon’s shoulders to take his hand again and Brendon’s face falls a little. “You’re exhausted,” Spencer says. 

Jon sits on the bed beside him, trapping Spencer between the two of them. He takes Spencer’s free hand and Brendon’s and Spencer looks at the lopsided, misshapen circle their arms make. It needs a fourth, he thinks, to smooth it out. 

“Just, let’s…In the morning,” Spencer reasserts. “You guys can…” He doesn’t want to assume too much and god knows his double bed wasn’t made for this. But. He swallows. “You guys want to stay in here tonight?” 

Jon gives him a sly smile and Brendon’s face brightens, and that settles it, apparently. There’s a flurry of bedcovers and a brief struggle to get the pillows adjusted correctly to fit three people, and somehow in all of this, Spencer finds himself on his back, in the middle, Jon and Brendon curled up on either side. Brendon holds Spencer’s hand over his stomach and Jon throws a possessive leg over Spencer’s hips. The two of them make Spencer feel weighted down and wanted. 

When Spencer surfaces from his dreams, he doesn’t remember more than a blur of skin and wet mouths, but he’s hard and Brendon’s got one of his legs between Spencer’s. In his sleep, Spencer’s rolled onto his side and now Jon is spooned against his back, dick pressing against Spencer’s ass. Brendon’s still asleep, held in Spencer’s arms, mouth open and breath warm on Spencer’s throat. 

Spencer’s still half asleep. He doesn’t think about morning breath, or Ryan being in the next room over, or consequences. He fits his mouth over Brendon’s, tracing his tongue around the shape of Brendon’s lips. Brendon mouths back absently, like he’s still asleep, but Jon’s hand goes tight on Spencer’s hip and Spencer knows he’s watching. 

Brendon moans when Spencer finally slides his tongue inside Brendon’s mouth, and then he begins to move slowly, unwinding from his semi-foetal position to wrap his arms around Spencer’s neck. His leg between Spencer’s nudges upward as he slides closer, and then Brendon’s erection is pressed tightly against Spencer’s hip. 

Spencer’s right hand is trapped between Brendon’s waist and the mattress, but his free hand wanders under the hem of Brendon’s t-shirt, finding the warm, smooth skin of Brendon’s back. He lets his fingers skip up Brendon’s spine and Brendon shivers and kisses him harder, with sudden awareness and intent. 

Brendon’s kisses are sweet and inexpert and if kisses can be earnest, Brendon’s are. Spencer could spend a few hours like this, rubbing against Brendon’s knee, memorising Brendon’s mouth and the taste of him. But Jon’s hands tug at Spencer’s waistband and Brendon hums a sound of approval, moving enough for Jon to get the pants down over Spencer’s hips. 

“This okay?” Spencer asks, running his hand over Brendon’s side and tickling down his ribs. He waits, fingers just under Brendon’s waistband, for Brendon’s response. Brendon opens his eyes sluggishly and looks down between their bodies, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. He nods and doesn’t look away, watching as Spencer slides his hand inside, lower, and lower, until he’s got his fingers wrapped around Brendon’s cock. 

Brendon sighs Spencer’s name, working his hips closer and Spencer tugs gently, pausing at the end to rub a circle around the head. Brendon groans and arches his back, leaking in Spencer’s hand. 

Jon pushes up on one arm to lean over Spencer and swallow Brendon’s sounds with his mouth. Spencer watches them kiss, heart racing at the sight. He’d know he wanted them both, but until this moment, he hadn’t realised that he wants them with each other, too. It makes him relax, makes this feel easier. 

Jon turns his head out of the kiss, just slightly, so Brendon only has half of his mouth and it only takes Spencer half a second to understand and surge forward to fit his mouth against theirs. It’s awkward, the way their bodies are all twisted together, and Spencer’s neck aches from the angle, but he doesn’t want to stop. 

It’s Jon who leaves the kiss first, falling back behind Spencer to lay kisses over his shoulder and neck, at the top of his spine. Brendon easily adapts back to a regular kiss, hungrily lapping at Spencer’s mouth, and Spencer answers with a squeeze of his fist that has Brendon thrusting into his hand. 

Brendon reaches down to return the favour at the same time that two of Jon’s cool, lube slicked fingers press inside Spencer’s ass. Spencer breaks the kiss, head falling heavily against his pillow. He grits his teeth against crying out and can’t figure out which way to go. 

Above him, Brendon and Jon are kissing, and maybe that’s how they get a rhythm going, because the awkward give and take from either side quickly evens into something better and they begin to move together, jerking and thrusting in time. Spencer gives himself over to it, hand going limp around Brendon. 

Jon’s teeth scrape across the back of Spencer’s neck and he murmurs, “Ready?” Spencer nods, breath coming fast, and Jon slides into place, the head of his cock pressing against Spencer’s hole. Jon thrusts forward in one smooth motion and Spencer bites down hard on his lip. 

Brendon leans forward, breath puffing over Spencer’s lips before tracing the spot with his tongue, soothing. Spencer opens his mouth and remembers Brendon’s cock, hard and hot in his hand. He tries to make it good, but it’s already asking a lot that he’s even moving his hand in the first place, with Jon fucking him and Brendon jerking him off and kissing him so sweetly. 

The thing is, it’s hot and sweaty and uncomfortable. A double bed was never made for this sort of action, and the covers are bunched around Spencer’s legs, his ankles trapped together by his pants and his hand is falling asleep under Brendon’s side… Yet sex has never been this intensely _good_. 

Brendon’s whimpering into Spencer’s kiss, fingers rough and desperate on Spencer’s cock. Jon bites the skin just beneath Spencer’s ear with enough force to leave a mark and he pants Brendon and Spencer’s names. Spencer never thought he’d be alright hearing another person’s name called during sex, but he supposes this is a good day for firsts. 

Jon sets up a quick pace, rocking hard and deep with each thrust. It’s tight, Spencer’s legs trapped like they are, but it feels amazing, like the first time all over again. Brendon hooks a leg over Spencer and Jon’s hips and then his hand is brushing Spencer’s with every flick of the wrist, their dicks bumping. 

There’s a little fumbling between them, neither willing to end the kiss to actually look or ask, but they manage to get their hands wrapped around both their dicks together, and that’s so much better. 

“You’re so fucking hot,” Jon says, and Spencer doesn’t know which of them Jon means, or if he means both of them, and then he decides it doesn’t even matter. “Shit, Spence. He’s so tight, Brendon, you have to fuck him.” 

Spencer groans at the thought and Brendon’s eyes fly open in surprise. He bites down hard on Spencer’s lip and twists his wrist just right, and Spencer comes apart in his hand. 

Lethargy spreads through him and Spencer barely has the presence of mind to keep his hand moving over Brendon’s cock, but Brendon laces their fingers together and it’s only another few seconds before he’s coming, too. 

Jon, ever the gentleman, waits until Brendon’s gone before following. His fingers go tighter on Spencer’s hips and he jerks hard twice more, face buried in Spencer’s hair. 

“Holy shit,” Brendon whispers. He puts his clean hand in Spencer’s hair, pulling him in for another kiss, and he’s shaking all over. 

“Cold?” Spencer asks. 

Brendon shakes his head. “No, I just…” He presses an almost chaste kiss to the corner of Spencer’s mouth. “That was amazing. I just wish Ryan was with us.” 

“He will be,” Jon says with certainty. “He wants this as much as we do. He just won’t admit it yet.” 

Spencer privately thinks that it isn’t a matter of time where Ryan is concerned. He’s more worried that not only will it never happen, but that his friendship with Ryan is falling apart beyond what Spencer can fix. He doesn’t say anything, though. Brendon doesn’t look miserable like he had last night and Spencer isn’t ready to be the one to make him look that way right now. 

“Do you hear that?” Brendon asks, tilting his head to the side. Spencer strains to listen and hears a faint beeping through the wall. 

“Shit!” Jon says, and jumps up, tangling the blankets worse in the process. “My alarm. I’ve got.” He checks the time on Spencer’s nightstand and starts fumbling around the mess of clothing on the floor for his underwear. “I’m going to be late.” 

He pauses at the door and comes back, leaning over the bed to give Spencer a lingering kiss, and then Brendon. “You two be okay?” 

Spencer nods and Brendon says, “Yes.” Jon spares them a smile and another quick kiss before darting out. 

There is a long moment of silence in Jon’s absence and Brendon gives Spencer a weak smile. “We’re sort of a mess,” he says. 

Spencer closes the distance between them again and Brendon is more insistent, more sure. He licks at Spencer’s bottom lip until Spencer gives in, opens up, and then Brendon licks past his teeth, curling his tongue against Spencer’s. 

When he pulls back, Brendon asks, “What Jon said…while we were…that.” He stops and looks irritated with himself. “What Jon said, about me fucking you. You’d really let me?” 

Spencer fights the sudden urge to laugh. “Both of us would, if that’s what you want. Or we can fuck you. I like being on the bottom better,” he says, and grins. “But if you want me to fuck you, I think I could make that sacrifice.” 

“So we can…we can keep doing this,” Brendon asks. “You won’t…”

Spencer knows boys with abandonment issues. He draws Brendon into a tight hug, ignoring the drying mess on their stomachs. “Even if Ryan never comes around, me and Jon…we don’t plan on going anywhere. We won’t make you go anywhere. Unless you want to.” 

Brendon kisses him and Spencer rolls Brendon beneath him, giving into the desire to make out as long as they can. Jon leaves first, and then Ryan moves around for a bit before leaving for class. Brendon has the morning off at Starbucks but has an early shift at the music shop. 

Still, they manage to shower together, rubbing under the slick fall of water until Brendon’s clinging to Spencer’s shoulders. Brendon is beautiful when he comes. There’s something powerful and honest about it, and Spencer can understand how Ryan fell, even if he never intended to. 

Spencer walks Brendon to work, and Brendon holds his hand the entire way. “I guess I’m glad I told my parents,” Brendon says, and Spencer’s so surprised he can’t even respond. 

Brendon catches the look and explains, “I never really planned to, you know. I thought I could get away without mentioning the gay thing. But even though they don’t want anything to do with me, at least it’s over with, you know? I don’t have to ever wonder when I’m going to be caught and how horrible it will be. It’s done.” 

“I think Ryan wanted me to tell them,” Brendon says. “I can’t help but think about if he had been home, instead of Jon. Or you. You said you’d do the same, but I don’t think you would have.” 

Spencer squeezes Brendon’s fingers. “It’s not supposed to be like this,” Brendon says, voice harsh and angry. “I’m not supposed to want the three of you so badly. I should have been happy with Ryan, or I should have been happy with Jon. I shouldn’t have wanted you, too. Now that I have both of you, I shouldn’t still want Ryan.” 

“Maybe it isn’t normal,” Spencer says. “But you’re not alone in it. Jon and I want the same thing.” 

They get to the music store and Kyle waves at them both through the window. Spencer’s been around enough, both before Brendon was hired and since, that the other employees know him. “They think you’re my boyfriend,” Brendon explains. “I never bothered correcting them. That’s fucked up, huh?” 

Spencer smiles. “It means I can do this,” he whispers, and presses a kiss to Brendon’s frown. “Everybody’s fucked up, Brendon. I love you anyway.” 

Brendon’s face blossoms into a smile, brighter and happier than anything Spencer’s ever seen on him and Brendon says in a delighted rush, sincere and honest, “I love you, too, Spencer.” 

Spencer’s never been one to hold the words hostage, but he knows they don’t come easy to some. Ryan’s maybe said them a handful of times in over a decade of friendship, and not at all in the past few years. Jon hasn’t said them at all. Spencer has always told himself that it’s enough to know that they feel it, even if he tells them and never hears the words back. 

But Brendon says it so easily, and Spencer knows Brendon means it. Years of teaching himself not to expect it has made Spencer sort of defenceless in the face of this. Brendon looks at his face and swings their hands together. 

“Me too,” Brendon says, and Spencer knows that Brendon knows exactly what he’s feeling. “I’ve gotten so sick of not hearing it back that sometimes I don’t say it, even when I should.” 

They both know he means Ryan, and Spencer feels this swell of helplessness and anger and he _needs to fix this_. They’re not going to be right until Ryan is with them. 

Brendon spends the morning at work completely distracted and unable to function. He’s been fighting off a cold for days now and today his mind is foggy and his nose is stuffy. For the first time in, well, ever, he actually wants his medication. 

There’s a fleeting pang of regret for having flushed it, and then thinks how disappointed Spencer and Ryan and Jon would be if he were to start taking them again. Well, Spencer and Jon, anyway. Right now Ryan probably couldn’t care less what Brendon was doing right now. Unless it was something publicly humiliating. 

He keeps telling himself he isn’t going to think about this whole mess, and pushes it to the back of his mind. Then it keeps creeping back up on him, whispering what-ifs and could-have-beens until Brendon’s stomach is aching and he feels dizzy and he just wants to be at home. Home, in Nevada, in his own bed. God, he doesn’t even have a bed that’s his own anymore. 

There’s this tiredness that’s been building up over the past few months. It was different in Brazil. Not comfortable, certainly, but at least then he’d had the façade of purpose to fall back on. Since coming to Chicago that has fast disintegrated. 

Sleeping in Ryan’s bed every night, he’d felt as though he was just counting down to the inevitable disaster. He’s well aware that he’s the one to blame in the end, which he hadn’t anticipated, but it doesn’t change the fact. 

As nice as it was waking up this morning with Jon and Spencer, it doesn’t feel any more permanent. Brendon _hates_ himself, because he loves Ryan, and he didn’t want to actually leave Ryan’s bed. He doesn’t want to leave Jon and Spencer’s beds, either, but it feels just as wrong. Like it doesn’t fit. Like he’s trying to force something. 

When he first saw Jon and Ryan and Spencer together, Brendon had thought _they fit_. Before Brendon ever thought of falling in love with them, before he ever thought of letting Ryan fuck him, Brendon had just wanted to fit with them. He wanted to belong to them, because they looked close, the way that family and friends are always supposed to be, but never are. 

Now all that closeness is shattered, and Brendon knows it’s his fault and he doesn’t know how to fix it. The worst part is that he isn’t sure, if he could go back, that he would change very much because he wants them all. He _needs_ them all. 

He thinks of the way that Ryan touches him. Ryan’s always been attracted to him physically. Now he thinks of the way that Ryan looks at Brendon when they’re in bed, or when Brendon sings Ryan’s words, or when Brendon laughs and Ryan gets a tiny, private little smile just from hearing the sound and _of course_ Brendon knew. 

It isn’t that he is greedy. He thinks that maybe he could have set aside his feelings for Jon and Spencer if it weren’t obvious that he wasn’t the only one thinking about it. If it hadn’t been obvious that RyanandBrendon and SpencerandJon were tearing apart the whole group dynamic. 

Throughout his shift he comes up with a hundred different ways he could have handled the situation. How he could have broached the subject with Ryan or maybe Spencer, because Spencer’s the best for this sort of thing. 

On his break, he texts _I’m freaking out_ to Jon and Spencer and doesn’t really expect an answer. But when he steps outside after work, Jon’s waiting against the wall of the shop, hot chocolate in hand. 

“Spence is picking up movies and Tom’s ordering the pizza,” Jon says and takes Brendon’s elbow to lead him to his car. 

“Tom?” Brendon asks. He’s heard the name mentioned before, in passing. 

“Tom is made of awesome. You’ll love him,” Jon promises. 

The ride is calming. Jon doesn’t talk at all and Brendon just sips his hot chocolate and watches the passing scenery as night creeps on. The radio is set to an alternative station; Brendon’s education in modern pop has been pretty eclectic since he’s fallen in with Ryan and Jon and Spencer. 

By now, Brendon can pick out most of the songs that play by artist, if not by name—Death Cab, My Chemical Romance, Green Day, Fall Out Boy. He likes them all, likes to sing along, and it helps settle him. Jon reaches for hand after a couple blocks and doesn’t let go the entire way. 

Spencer’s already there when they arrive at Tom’s apartment, and he springs off the couch to wrap Brendon up in a tight hug. Brendon sort of wants to crumble in his arms, but there are strangers, and he doesn’t feel like making a scene. He hugs back for a long moment, whispering a _thank you_ into Spencer’s neck, and Spencer gives him a soft, fleeting kiss when they pull back. 

Jon loops an arm around Spencer’s waist and Spencer keeps his arm over Brendon’s shoulder, leading him into the living area. 

“Brendon, this is Tom,” a pretty boy sprawled over the couch who gives Brendon a lazy smile and a flick of his wrist in greeting, “Joe,” who is more hair than anything else, all wild curls around his face and a big, dopey smile, no doubt thanks to the joint pinched between his fingers, “and Bill,” with miles of legs and an earnest, pleased smile, who peeks in from the kitchen to ask if they want beers. 

Brendon knows he’s awkward around new people, and he’s more than a little nervous about all of this. He curves in on himself, hunching his shoulders, crossing his arms high over his chest. Spencer leads him to the empty couch and Brendon is ridiculously grateful when Spence and Jon frame him on either side. 

Bill comes swaying in from the kitchen, long fingers holding six bottles of beer by the neck. Once he’s distributed them, Tom catches him around the waist and pulls him into his lap. Bill giggles at something Tom whispers against his neck and Brendon has to look away. 

Brendon takes a long swig of his beer and Joe passes the joint across the coffee table with a “looks like you could use this more than me.” Brendon looks at the joint like it might bite him and Jon chuckles and takes it from Joe’s fingers. 

It’s a relief when Jon passes it on to Spencer and it continues around the room without anyone pressuring Brendon to take a hit. Tom and Joe go back to their conversation about guitars, and it’s actually really interesting. Brendon’s happy just to listen and learn from what they’re saying, and he finds himself relaxing into the sofa. Maybe he’s getting a contact buzz, or maybe it’s that by the time the pizza arrives he’s already on his second beer. 

From there it’s a quick downward spiral. Even during his “rebellion” Brendon didn’t ever drink, and he hasn’t had more than a sip here and there since meeting Jon and the others. At some point he’s aware of doing shots of gin with Bill, but it all sort of blurs together as the evening wears on. At any rate, it’s easier to relax and talk to Joe and Tom and Bill like normal people. 

Pete and Patrick show up late in the evening with pie and more booze, and by then Brendon is pleasantly buzzed. Pete, he distantly realises, should be familiar to him, but mostly he’s just funny and a little strange and he and Brendon hit it off fairly quickly over shots of vodka and sake, talking about relationships and love. 

“I like you better than Jesse,” Pete tells him, with _The Princess Bride_ playing in the background and Joe and Tom fiddling around with their guitars in the corner. 

Brendon blushes, because the subject of Jesse still makes him a little uncomfortable. “I didn’t mean to take over from him,” Brendon says, and the words sound slurred to his own ears. He thinks he needs to slow down, but when Pete hands him another two fingers of sake, he chugs it in one go. “And you haven’t even heard me sing.” 

“Doesn’t matter, man,” Pete tells him. “Patrick was never supposed to be my vocalist, you know? He played drums when I met him. Then I heard him sing, and I knew. I gave Ryan a hard time, a few years ago. Jesse, he’s got a good voice. He’s got a nice stage presence. But I think I’ll give Ross the benefit of the doubt here.” 

Brendon isn’t precisely sure how it happened, but he thinks he’s talking to the frontman of Fall Out Boy, and he doesn’t know how to deal with that, especially drunk. “Ryan doesn’t want anything to do with me, right now,” he says. 

“Dude, Patrick barely ever wants to have anything to do with me,” Pete says. “That doesn’t matter. It isn’t about wanting, it’s about needing.” 

Brendon isn’t even sure what that _means_ , but he’s saved from having to discuss it any further when Spencer gets him under one arm and Jon under the other and he’s being led down the hall, tossing over his shoulder promises to Pete not to let him down. 

“Hey,” Brendon says dumbly, when he’s dumped on a futon in a messy room. He doesn’t say anything else—can’t think of anything else, because Spencer and Jon are undressing each other, passing a fresh roach back and forth between frenzied kisses and whispered words. 

Brendon doesn’t know how much time has passed since he’s come to Tom’s. He feels pleasantly full, drunk and lightweight. He’s ready to float away except for Jon and Spencer, who fall to their knees on the floor on either side of Brendon, framing him. 

“You wanna try it?” Jon asks, taking a puff from the joint. Brendon watches the way the tip flares as Jon inhales, the way the smoke curls past his lips when he exhales. Spencer reaches over Brendon to take the joint from Jon. 

“I haven’t smoked anything in years,” Brendon whispers, because he’s actually _considering_ this, and that must be a good indication of how fucked up he is. He’s never had any desire to get high. He only ever smoked in the first place as part of his stupid teenage rebellion, and look where that got him. He’s pretty sure he never even got _high_. 

It’s funny, because if he’d just called and told his parents he’d smoked up he would have gotten in trouble, but not _disowned_. He’s been having gay sex for over a month. What’s a joint, to that? 

“Here,” Spencer says. He puts his hand on Brendon’s cheek, turning his face and taking a long drag before passing it back to Jon. Then Spencer leans in and Brendon turns his face up automatically, expectantly, parts his lips for Spencer’s kiss and breathes in when Spencer blows the smoke into his mouth. 

They pass Brendon back and forth, sharing mouthfuls of smoke with him through their kisses. He doesn’t need it, he wants to tell him. The alcohol has been enough to loosen his inhibitions, making him feel oddly connected to everything around him, and just good. 

Still, when they touch him it feels magnified by the hundreds. Every press of Spencer’s lips to his chest, down his stomach, leaves Brendon arching off the mattress. Every kiss of Jon’s, every brush of his fingers across Brendon’s ribs, leaves him gasping for more. 

Spencer fucks him and Brendon begs throughout it all, nails scoring Spencer’s back as they have Jon and Ryan’s before. He thinks, as tantalising as the idea is, to fuck Spencer, he prefers this, being spread open, dependent on Spencer and Jon for his pleasure. 

He’s heard that when someone is drunk it’s more difficult to have sex, but this feels easy. Spencer inside him and Jon’s mouth on them both, and he thinks the only way it could be better is if Ryan was with them too. He has the presence of mind, even drunk, not to speak the words out loud. 

Ryan manages to make it four days without seeing anyone other than Spencer in his apartment. He hears the sounds on his first night alone, imagines how Jon and Brendon fit together, even though he tries to keep the thoughts from entering his mind. He doesn’t want to think about it, but the images paint themselves, vivid and bright, behind his eyelids. 

The second and third nights he is alone in the house, not even Spencer keeping him company. He’s tried to drive Spencer away before and it’s never worked, but this time…He says to himself that it’s better this way. He feels stronger with no one to rely on at all. Still, it feels like he’s being punished for some reason, and he doesn’t understand it. 

Alone in bed, the silence stretches around Ryan like a living creature. It pulses in his ears, lurks behind closed eyelids, makes it difficult to sleep. He forces himself to think of anything else instead—lyrics he’s been working on, or the plot for a story that keeps escaping him. 

He should get up since he’s not sleeping. Next week is finals week and he still hasn’t finished the project he has due for his art class. He’s pretty sure he’s going to bomb geometry, but at least he’ll do well in his English class. All his finals are on Monday and Tuesday, which means getting it over with sooner, but also means less time for studying. 

At one thirty in the morning he receives a text from an unknown number. He’s tempted to ignore it, dismissing it as junk mail or something, but for whatever reason, he accepts it. 

It reads, _met yoru frontman, talked to some friends, u guys play tusday at 8 @pavilion, thrill me, pw._

A very large part of Ryan, probably the impulsive part, says to ignore it and tell Pete Wentz to go fuck himself. Ryan _told_ Jon they weren’t ready for a show and now, on top of everything else, Jon’s introducing Brendon to Pete and making dates for _shows?_ The part of Ryan that’s been desperate for recognition for as long as he remembers prickles under the attention, though and demands that Ryan respond. He’s been waiting for this chance forever. All he says is, _eight pm, wait til you hear him_. It isn’t very clever, but he feels shaky and determined and so worn out. 

The thing is, Ryan isn’t particularly cocky about his own lyrics, though he knows they’re good. It’s that he knows Brendon’s voice is golden, no matter what he sings. He knows all they need is for Pete to hear them, to see Brendon in action. 

It hurts to think of Brendon now. Ryan feels his absence like a hole in his chest. The same way he feels Jon’s absence and Spencer’s. 

He never meant to let Brendon so close. He doesn’t think it was a conscious choice. Brendon, being Brendon, did it himself. Sneaking under barriers and burrowing close until Ryan’s defences were meaningless. 

Ryan really, really wants to blame Brendon for the mess in which they find themselves. But the more that he thinks about it, the more he realises it is unfair to do so. With any of his past girlfriends, any of the others who have cheated on him, Ryan can say decisively that he is in the right. He always made it clear how he felt about them and where he saw their relationships going. 

He can’t say the same about Brendon. 

Spencer comes home on Saturday night and sits with Ryan on the sofa. He doesn’t say anything, but his presence is a relief. Something Ryan hadn’t even realised he wanted. He lays his head on Spencer’s shoulder and Spencer wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

“I want to go back to before,” Ryan says. He isn’t sure if he means before Brendon and Jon cheated, or before he and Brendon fucked, or before they even met him. Maybe before they met Jon. Except that isn’t true. He can’t imagine his life without Jon and Brendon in it, now. 

“Yeah,” Spencer agrees. “But…don’t you think things were messed up then, too?” 

Ryan doesn’t answer. He plays with the hem of Spencer’s shirt and in the background there is the sound of recorded laughter coming from the television. Once upon a time, Ryan used to get more worked up over being cheated on, but it’s almost become routine. He doesn’t need to ask why anymore. He’s never understood and he never will, and it doesn’t matter anyway, because it doesn’t make things any better. 

“I’m sorry about what I said,” he whispers. 

Spencer startles at that, pulling back a little so he can look Ryan in the face. “What?” he asks. 

“What?” Ryan repeats defensively. He’s allowed to apologise. Even if he doesn’t. Ever. “I said some shitty stuff, and it wasn’t fair, and you didn’t deserve it.” 

“Ryan Ross,” Spencer says, a sad smile on his lips, “is it possible that you’re growing up?” 

“Blow me,” Ryan mutters and sinks back against Spencer again. Spencer starts playing with his hair and Ryan wants to purr. He closes his eyes and tries to remember when the last time was that he and Spencer and Jon all cuddled together on the couch. Back when there was a simmering potential in the air. 

“Where are they?” Ryan asks, because it’s late and Brendon’s shift at the record store should be over and Jon just had a morning shift. It isn’t that he wants to see them. He still feels like an open sore, raw and exposed and so hurt and angry. 

“They’re staying away for a few days,” Spencer says. “They’re at Tom’s.” 

“You were with them the other night,” Ryan says. “I don’t understand, Spence.” 

Spencer sighs. Ryan can feel the way his ribs expand on the inhale, hear the beat of Spencer’s heart under his ear. There’s probably no one in the world who knows him better, no one he’s ever felt so close to, and recently they’ve just drifted apart. He wants to be close again. 

“I don’t want to lose them over this. Ryan…we should really talk about it. All four of us,” Spencer says. 

Ryan stiffens and tries to sit up, but Spencer holds on tighter. “There isn’t anything to say,” Ryan bites out. He’s suddenly angry again, past all the resignation and the question of whether any fault falls on him for this whole thing. 

“We trusted them. They abused that trust. And they _knew_ …” Ryan trails off, because if he goes down that path, thinks about how much of himself he revealed to them, all his weaknesses, it will be even worse. 

“They did something stupid,” Spencer says, “but it doesn’t mean they don’t love us.” 

“How can—” Ryan struggles, trying to get away. He feels ridiculous having this discussion while being held like a child. Spencer finally lets him up. “How can you believe that, Spence? If they loved us, they wouldn’t have done it.” 

Spencer looks tired; he rubs his forehead, pushing his hair back. “ _This_ is why you have to talk to them,” he says. “They aren’t—they didn’t do this to hurt us.” 

“Jon’s wanted Brendon since they met,” Ryan says. “He couldn’t stand that I was with him.” 

“Yeah,” Spencer says. “You know who else he’s wanted since he met them? _You_. And you know it. You knew that, and you knew how he felt about Brendon, so you fucked him because you knew it would get to Jon. You can’t fuck around with people’s emotions and not expect it to backfire.” 

Ryan stands up quickly, pacing away from the sofa. “Jon doesn’t—he didn’t. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Jon always wanted _you_.” 

“He wants us both. He wants all three of us,” Spencer says, and he sounds so sure of it, like it isn’t absurd to even suggest. 

“Is that—even if that’s true, is that supposed to make me feel better about being cheated on? Is that supposed to make me be okay with the fact that two of the people I—That two people I trusted screwed me over?” Ryan demands. 

“They didn’t—Ryan. Please, you need to talk to them. I know what they did was wrong, but it wasn’t for the wrong reasons, and we can fix this,” Spencer says. 

“Fix it? Will we all be friends, Spence? Will we go out with them when they go on their dates? Will we pretend not to hear them fucking?” 

Ryan walks back to Spencer, hovering over him. “Was that how it was at Tom’s? Did you watch them together all night? Did you sleep on the sofa so they could share a bed?” 

Spencer swallows loud enough that Ryan can hear it. He watches Spencer’s throat move, wants to put his mouth there. Of course, as if everything else isn’t so fucked up, there has to be this, too. Always this longing to have Spencer in the one way he isn’t allowed. 

“You wanna know how it was at Tom’s?” Spencer asks. His voice is pitched low and it makes the hairs at the back of Ryan’s neck prickle, makes his stomach turns in a pleasant way. 

Spencer stands up and Ryan refuses to step back, even though they’re pressed together now, all down their fronts. Ryan makes sure his expression is bland and uninterested. 

“I wasn’t on the sofa, and I wasn’t alone,” Spencer says. 

Ryan feels his heart picking up. There’s something dangerous about Spencer’s tone of voice and the look on his face. Something predatory. Ryan wants to be indignant, but he’s afraid his voice comes out a little breathy when he asks, “You’re still sleeping with him? After what he’s done?” 

Spencer wraps his hands around Ryan’s upper arms, holding him loosely. “Not just him,” Spencer says. “Brendon, too.” When Ryan jerks back in reflex, Spencer’s grip tightens. “All three of us together.” 

“You…” Ryan’s jaw feels tight, his throat narrowing so he can’t force any sound through. He’s turned on and he’s furious and he wouldn’t know what to say even if he could talk right now. He wants to believe Spencer’s lying. Spencer’s been there every time Ryan’s been hurt, comforting him. 

“I know you’ve been hurt,” Spencer whispers, and gives Ryan’s arms a little shake. “I know you—”

“Shut up,” Ryan manages to grit out, and kisses Spencer, hard. Their teeth clack together and Ryan tastes blood. “Shut up,” he hisses against Spencer’s mouth. 

It’s more of a struggle than a kiss, really. Ryan tears his arms from Spencer’s grip and grabs at the fabric of Spencer’s shirt to haul him closer. Spencer’s hands are everywhere, in Ryan’s hair, under his shirt, clinging to his hips. 

“We wanted you there, too,” Spencer mutters and Ryan kisses him harder to shut him up, shoving his tongue between Spencer’s lips. It’s _Spencer_ , who Ryan’s done practically everything with, except this. Ryan never envisioned them like this, all anger and desperation. Spencer’s lips are full and he likes to bite. 

Spencer twists them, pushing Ryan back down onto the sofa, knees on either side of Ryan’s legs. He settles in Ryan’s lap, never breaking the kiss. Kissing Spencer is supposed to be familiar and comfortable, but it feels utterly foreign and exciting and Ryan _needs_ this. 

Ryan arches up and Spencer’s kiss goes possessive. Spencer presses back with his full weight, grinding his hips against Ryan’s, slanting his mouth over Ryan’s, taking control. It’s equal parts terrifying and exhilarating. He could lose Spencer for good, but this is something Ryan’s wanted for longer than he cares to admit to himself. 

Ryan is painfully, blindingly hard and he thinks he could come just like this, rocking together with Spencer. Every time Spencer settles back in his lap, Ryan can feel the press of Spencer’s cock through his jeans, against Ryan’s hip. They’ve talked about sex together and they’ve teased each other, but none of it has prepared Ryan for the reality of doing this with Spencer. 

Then Spencer’s hands trace across Ryan’s stomach and start on the button of Ryan’s jeans, and Ryan figures that more skin might be better. He reaches to return the favour, fingers making quick work of Spencer’s zipper. Spencer’s wearing boxers that Ryan’s seen a hundred times. He’s borrowed them before. It’s so surreal, watching his hand slip beneath the waistband. 

“Ryan.” Spencer takes Ryan’s face between his hands, looking him in the eye. Ryan’s hand freezes, pressing against the soft skin of Spencer’s lower belly. “I love you,” Spencer tells him. 

“Shut up,” Ryan says, fierce and mean. “Shut up, I hate you. I love you, too.” He doesn’t entirely mean to say it, but he can’t not. It’s Spencer, and he has to. He kisses Spencer roughly again, enough that the cut on his lip reopens, and he fists Spencer’s cock. “Just shut up, Spence.” 

Holding Spencer’s cock in his hand is maybe the strangest moment in Ryan’s life, thus far. He’s thought about it, fantasies fuelled by little glimpses caught changing for bed or after showers, but this…it’s probably more psychological than physical, he knows, but this feels different from any other guy he’s touched. Like he needs to be careful, and remember every vein, every throb of blood under skin. 

“Fuck,” Spencer hisses and pushes his hips up. Ryan looks between them, watching Spencer’s cock slide through his fingers. “Fuck, Ryan, I do, I do,” Spencer says urgently. He wraps his fingers around Ryan’s cock and turns his face, pressing gentle kisses over Ryan’s cheek, down his jaw. “I do, Ryan. So do Brendon and Jon.” 

“Shut up,” Ryan says, and he’s horrified that it sounds more like begging than a demand. His hips move of their own volition, thrusting into Spencer’s grip. He whimpers when Spencer bites his pulse point, hard enough that it will mark, like he’s trying to lay a claim. 

Maybe it’s that they’ve been friends forever, but Spencer knows just how to touch him. He reads every sound that slips past Ryan’s lips, every expression that passes over his face. It’s all Ryan can do just to keep up, pace fast on Spencer’s dick because he _needs_ Spencer to come, needs to be the reason for it. It’s not only unfair, but downright unbelievable that Jon and Brendon got to experience this first. 

Spencer whispers, “ _Love you, Ryan, come on_ ,” against Ryan’s throat and bites again, more gently. Ryan’s orgasm surprises him, makes him gasp, eyes flying open and falling closed again as he shakes through it. Spencer keeps kissing his neck and wraps his fingers around Ryan’s on his own cock. Another few strokes and Spencer groans, adding to the hot, wet mess between them. 

Barely a minute passes before the regret begins to creep up Ryan’s spine, making him feel cold all over. There are _reasons_ he’s never acted on his feelings towards Spencer, and they all occur to him at once. He arches his back, trying to push Spencer off his lap, but Spencer tightens his thighs around Ryan’s legs and kisses him. 

“Stop freaking out,” Spencer says. “It doesn’t have to be bad. I know this has been all fucked up, but that doesn’t mean we can’t make it work. It’s been fucked up because we’ve been fighting what we want. We thought we can’t have it but we can, Ryan. We all want each other. Everything bad that’s happened is because we’ve been trying to keep from being together, but we don’t _have to_.” 

“This is insane,” Ryan says, pushing weakly at Spencer’s chest. “Even if—Even if we all wanted it, Spencer, things like that don’t _work_ in the real world.” 

“Ryan, we’re not working _right now_!” Spencer almost shouts. 

“They cheated on us, Spencer. How could we ever…” Ryan trails off because this is so ridiculous he won’t even argue over it. He won’t give it that sort of weight. 

“You can’t just have it your way, Ryan. You can’t want us all for yourself and not let it go both ways. Just because we want each other doesn’t mean we don’t want you, too. If you weren’t so fucking selfish, you’d understand that the four of us could be _good_.” 

Spencer kisses the corner of Ryan’s mouth and hugs him, and Ryan wants to hug back, wants to go limp in Spencer’s arms, but he holds himself straight and tight. “It doesn’t have to be about what we do separately,” Spencer insists. 

“If you just feel like fucking Jon or Brendon, I _don’t_ care because I know that you all love me. It wouldn’t bother them to know about me and you. 

Ryan lets his hand rest, giving up on pushing Spencer away. “I need to get up, Spencer. This is drying and I need to shower.” 

Spencer sighs and leans back on his heels. “Please, we don’t want to do this without you.” 

“I thought you were supposed to be the one of us with sense!” Ryan snaps. “This is crazy, do you hear yourself? Who thinks that a…a fucking _foursome_ is the answer to relationship problems?” 

“It’s us, Ryan,” Spencer says. “We’ll wait for you as long as you need.” He stands up and Ryan pushes to his feet, ducking around Spencer towards the bathroom. 

“You’ll be waiting a really long time, then,” Ryan says, stripping out of his clothing as he goes. 

Spencer follows him into the bathroom, watching him run the water and test the temperature. “Ryan, I wanted you before I even knew what that meant. I can be patient.” 

Ryan sags a little, shoulders slumping. “Spence,” he says, and doesn’t even know what he means by it. Spencer does, though. He always knows what Ryan means. 

“Hey,” Spencer says, and wraps him in a hug. “I’m here. I’ll always be here. However you want me.” 

“What about them?” Ryan asks, voice muffled in the skin of Spencer’s shoulder. 

“If you made me choose, you know I’d choose you,” Spencer says. “I wish you wouldn’t ask me to, though.” 

Ryan has never anticipated being in this situation. He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to any of it, except that for all his protests, he just wants to put himself in Spencer’s hands and trust. 

“You wonder what might have happened if I’d given Brendon a chance back in high school?” Ryan whispers, apropos of nothing, but it seems suddenly important. 

“Rock stars totally have orgies all the time,” Spencer says, and to anyone else, it might not make sense as an answer, but it startles Ryan into laughing, clinging harder to Spencer’s waist. 

Ryan’s been wondering about it a lot, since he learned, if he and Brendon would have still gotten together, if they ever would have met Jon. It makes a fucked up sort of sense to Ryan, given the way his entire life has gone, that now, when he finally sees the band coming together after years of struggling, now that Pete is ready to give him a chance…now his personal life is falling apart. 

He’s never been about second chances. He watched the way his parents went back and forth, lying and cheating, their marriage in shambles, and when they stopped being able to hurt each other with words, using Ryan as a pawn in the game. He always promised he wouldn’t do the same, and he’s never been tempted to before. 

Ryan isn’t exactly a stranger to being cheated on. He’s just never considered forgiving it. He wants Brendon back, and that makes him feel weak and confused. Yes, he wants Jon back, too, but not just as a friend. Spencer’s right; it just leads to them hurting each other. 

With his track record, Ryan barely has the energy to try to keep one relationship going, let alone three. It’s crazy that he’s even letting himself think about it. “I don’t think I can do it,” Ryan says. Spencer just hugs him tighter, and doesn’t argue the point.

Spencer calls in the early afternoon to say it’s safe for Brendon and Jon to come back to the apartment. Jon knows Spencer wouldn’t lie about it, but he still finds it difficult to believe that Ryan’s already okay with having them around. 

“Maybe they talked,” Brendon says, but he doesn’t sound too optimistic about it. “Maybe Ryan understands.” 

Jon meets his gaze at the next stoplight and Brendon answers Jon’s raised eyebrow with his own miserable frown. They don’t speak for the rest of the ride, but Jon squeezes Brendon’s hand in reassurance, so Brendon doesn’t think he’s mad or something. Jon doesn’t know how he’s managed to fall for three of the most emotionally fragile people in the world (even though, in some strange ways, Spencer’s one of the strongest, too), but it’s given him practice in dealing with these situations. 

Ryan is sitting at the dining table when they come in. He’s dressed in his favourite pjs—loose drawstring pants and a sweatshirt so big it’s always slipping off one shoulder or the other—and he looks so good that Jon is tempted to taste the line of his neck with his tongue. The line of his neck that’s already been marked, actually, and Jon hopes to God that it’s from Spencer and not from some random asshole. 

When the door closes, Ryan looks up from his art project, face expressionless. Brendon fidgets and grabs for Jon’s hand again, then drops it quickly, guiltily. Ryan rolls his eyes and looks away from them. 

“Pete texted me. He wants us to play Tuesday at the Pavilion. We should practice until then,” Ryan mumbles. 

“You—” Brendon shoots an uncertain look at Jon and then continues, “you still want us to…be in the band?” 

Ryan glances up casually, but his eyes are hard and cold. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know that in addition to losing my boyfriend and one of my best friends I was also losing my vocalist and bass player.” 

“You didn’t,” Brendon says, voice weak and desperate. He takes a few steps forward and stops short in the middle of the room. “You didn’t lose us, Ryan, please. I still want to be—” He trails off when Ryan’s eyes flash. “I still want to sing for you. Ryan. Can we talk? I need to—”

“Unless you want to talk about the band, there’s nothing we have to say to each other,” Ryan says, and goes back to his artwork. 

“So when are we rehearsing?” Jon asks. He’s willing to give Ryan a little longer before he starts getting mad back. He _knows_ he’s the one who did wrong here, but he can’t fix it if Ryan won’t let him. 

“Spence has a study group until six. When he gets back. We both have finals tomorrow, so when Brendon gets back from work we can practice then, too. We’re going to do _Lying, Sins, Time to Dance_ , and _Build God_ , so if you have any problems with them, get it figured out before Tuesday.” 

Brendon nods dejectedly and shuffles down the hall, no doubt to get the keyboard, and Jon is torn between following him and staying behind. He moves closer to the table so he can see what Ryan’s working on. There’s a strange swirl of lines, delicate and intricate, dozens of shapes and patterns that shouldn’t work together, but Ryan has made fit. 

“Ryan,” he says, “if you’re going to be mad, be mad at me. Brendon, he didn’t really—”

“Don’t,” Ryan says. “I know you’re lying.” He laughs, a humourless sound. “Is that how you think you’ll make things better? Lying to me on top of fucking my boyfriend?” 

Jon takes a deep, calming breath. “I know I’ve fucked up a lot in this relationship. I’ve done so much shit I’m not proud of. Shit I never would have done before I met you and Spence. It’s a little appalling, actually—the way I planned on getting you both into bed with me, treating it like it was a game, the way I pushed you to drink and use drugs when I should have respected your decisions. 

“I guess I should take that as a sign that this, what we have, is really unhealthy. But I’m ready to change that. I’m ready to try to make it better, because even though it’s unhealthy, I can’t leave this. I don’t want to. So we’ve just got to find a way to make it work.” 

Ryan’s grip on his pencil is tight, his fingers turning white. “Are you done?” he asks. Jon breathes out heavily through his nose. “Okay, great. You can go now. Do whatever. As long as it isn’t around me.” 

The thing is, Jon knows it should be so much worse than this. He knows Ryan should be tearing him apart with words Jon’s never even heard before and still managing to make Jon feel about two feet tall. It should be reassuring that Ryan isn’t doing that, but instead it makes Jon feel cold. 

Even though Jon has a fair amount of guilt over what he’s done, he sort of feels like it’s his right to go on the offensive here. He and Ryan have been doing this for almost nine months now, and it feels like it’s time to end it. He wants to pin Ryan in place, demand his attention, and keep him there as long as it takes for Ryan to admit that he wants this as much as they do. 

This is such a delicate situation, though, and Spencer’s worried if they push too hard Ryan will just shut down completely. Jon thinks Spencer’s a little too close to the situation. Spencer’s known Ryan so long and so well, but never as a _lover_. Jon thinks that without the right provocation, Ryan Ross is stubborn enough to never give in. 

Still, he’ll defer to Spencer for now, with Brendon an emotional wreck and Ryan’s concert two days away. Jon can be patient until then. Even with everything else going on, he won’t fuck this up for Ryan. 

“We’re going to talk about this,” Jon says, and Ryan doesn’t even spare him a glance. It makes Jon want to throw his hands in the air or pull at his hair in frustration. Ryan makes him feel like he’s going fucking crazy. 

Brendon is in the study, sitting at the bench in front of the keyboard, making notes on the lined paper where he’s copied Ryan’s lyrics. Jon sits next to him and Brendon shifts to make room. 

“You okay?” Jon asks, because he feels like his skin is too tight and coming back wasn’t a good idea. Brendon’s probably feeling even worse. 

“I’ve been trying not to get sick for a week now,” he says. “I got this little cough and I told myself I couldn’t get sick because I’m on my parents’ insurance, and if I had to go to the doctor I’d have to fill out paperwork with the mission house so that the bill would get paid, and I didn’t want to have to do all of that. I mean. Not that I could now. My dad’s probably trying to get me off his insurance as fast as he can, now.” 

“I could run out to the drug store. Or we could call Spence, ask him to bring something,” Jon says. 

Brendon smiles, a sad little twist of his lips, and he sets aside the notebook. “Ryan got me some cough syrup. I didn’t even say I wasn’t feeling well, but I think maybe I coughed in my sleep, or maybe it was because I woke up all stuffed up.” 

Jon does not like where this is going. He puts an arm around Brendon’s shoulders, bracing. Brendon shrugs it off, and lays his fingers over the keys. “I’m not going to cry,” he says. “That would fuck up my voice. I’m just worried, what if I can’t keep fighting off the cold.” 

“I’ll call Spence,” Jon says. “We’ll get some Airborne and orange juice and pump you full of vitamin C.” 

“Yeah,” Brendon says absently, already toying with notes from _Build God_. “I should probably save my voice. Not use it except to practice.” 

Jon knows there’s nothing about what Brendon’s said that should make Jon feel like deflating. Like instead of getting better, everything somehow keeps getting worse. He wants to tell Brendon that he can try as hard as he wants, perform as well as possible, and it isn’t some magic trick that will make Ryan forgive them. 

So he lays back on the bed and texts Spencer to pick up the things for Brendon, then closes his eyes and listens while Brendon plays. “You see the mark on his neck?” Jon asks. It’s sort of rhetorical, and Brendon’s already said he isn’t talking, so Jon isn’t really surprised not to get an answer. “Think it’s from Spence?” 

He nudges Brendon with his toe and Brendon ignores him. “Think he went out and fucked someone?” 

“You know,” Brendon says softly, conversationally, voice barely audible over the click of his nails on the keys and the sound from the speakers. “Ryan told me a bunch of times how much of a dick you are, and I thought, ‘that’s just impossible. Must be a different Jon Walker.’” 

“Sorry,” Jon says, because he doesn’t mean to be an asshole. Least of all towards Brendon. He scoots to the end of the bed and lays his feet in Brendon’s lap, rubbing at Brendon’s thighs with his toes. He doesn’t intend for it to be arousing, but Brendon relaxes a little and smiles as he plays. 

Normally Brendon’s playing would be soothing, but Jon’s mind is too wrapped up in everything else going on around them. He keeps running circles in his head, trying to figure this whole mess out, and it makes him restless. 

Halfway through rolling a joint, Brendon shoots Jon a pointed look, stopping him. A half-formed thought about seeing if Ryan feels like smoking up makes Jon chuckle a little sadly and he finishes the joint and tosses it in his dresser. 

Spencer comes back at six thirty and Ryan doesn’t argue when Spencer insists on making dinner before they practice. It’s almost like normal—Spencer and Brendon in the kitchen, Ryan at the table with his work, Jon watching some stupid sitcom on the TV. Except there’s no teasing and laughter from Brendon and Spencer. It’s totally quiet. Jon feels cold, alone on the couch. 

“Is this how it’s gonna be?” Spencer asks, when they’re sitting around the table eating in silence. “We’re going to be the famous rock stars who sit on their bus all day never talking to each other. Just playing shows and then going our separate ways?” 

Ryan puts down his fork—he wasn’t eating, anyway. Brendon ate all his food, including the veggies, probably something left over from childhood and being told to clear his plate. The rest of them have all just been playing with their food, redistributing it into different piles on their plates. 

“If you’ve got a problem with it, Spence, now would be the time to say so,” Ryan says, tone mean and unaffected. 

Spencer’s nostrils flare and Jon knows that look, one step from Spencer actually shouting. “I wasn’t saying that, and you know it,” Spencer says, voice tight. Part of Jon wishes Spencer _would_ yell. “But yeah, I do think we have a problem.” 

Ryan stands up, shoving his napkin down next to his plate and almost knocking over his glass. “I’ve said I’m not having this conversation. I won’t. If you don’t want to be in the band, this is it. You can leave right now. Okay? So just make up your fucking minds, but I don’t want to hear anything else about our _problems_.” 

Jon really, really wants to step in on Spencer’s behalf, but a quick glare from Spencer stops the words on his lips. “Fine,” Spencer says. “I don’t think anyone’s talking about leaving the band…” He looks around the table and Jon meets his gaze defiantly, though Brendon and Ryan look anywhere but. 

“Then let’s practice,” Spencer concludes. 

Jon has always liked watching Spencer play drums. He’s sort of graceful about it, which really shouldn’t be possible. He shouldn’t look delicate when he’s banging the shit out of things, but Spencer manages it. 

Tonight he’s all coiled tight, ready to strike, so it isn’t any surprise that he’s taking it out on his kit. Usually he’ll cover each drum and cymbal with soundoff pads, but the other tenants, mostly all students, have decided the best way to deal with impending finals is to get shitfaced. There are at least four different parties going on in the building, so Spencer doesn’t bother with it now. 

No part of Jon expected this to go _smoothly_ , but it’s just ridiculous, the way Ryan manages to pick apart every little thing Brendon does, how every note he plays is off, every thing he sings too sharp or not in the right rhythm. 

Jon knows Ryan’s just being picky to be a bitch. Brendon’s been in Ryan’s head about the music before he was ever their singer. When Brendon picked up Ryan’s guitar and sang for them the first time, it had been obvious that he fit, better than any of them could have hoped or imagined. 

But Brendon takes all the criticism with a bowed head, doing his best to fix everything Ryan has a problem with. And okay, maybe Brendon’s never been the most outspoken person, but Jon hasn’t seen him look so reserved, so cowed, since before he stopped taking his drugs. 

At ten Ryan flings his guitar on the sofa in disgust and heads off down the hall to his room saying, “I’m going out.” 

“I should probably go out with him,” Spencer says. 

“Did you—” Brendon starts, and then falls silent. “Jon says you talked to him?” 

“I’m working on it,” Spencer says with a tired smile. “Let me work on it.” He pushes Brendon’s hair back from his face and rests their foreheads together. “You gonna be okay?” 

“I’m gonna overdose on vitamin C and crash,” Brendon says, returning Spencer’s smile with a matching one. 

Spencer quirks a questioning look at Jon. “It’s better you’re out there with him, than him being out there alone,” Jon says. 

Ryan comes back down the hall, not looking much different except for a layer of eyeliner and dark blue eye shadow, and swapping his sweats for tight jeans and a slinky black top. He still looks worn-out under it all. 

“Wait up,” Spencer calls. 

Ryan cocks his hips and gives Spencer an impatient look but waits at the door. Spencer leans forward very purposefully, fingers under Brendon’s chin, and kisses Brendon softly, but intimately. Jon’s eyes fly to Ryan who watches them with something like helpless fascination, mouth parting slightly. 

Then Spencer gets to his feet and Jon meets him halfway, hands falling to Spencer’s hips when Spencer kisses him. When they part, Brendon’s biting his lip, watching Ryan anxiously and Ryan’s staring at the floor, a muscle in his jaw ticking. “Are you coming?” he asks Spencer, and goes out the door before Spencer can answer. 

“Love you,” Jon says, when Spencer turns away from him, and it isn’t even that Jon planned on saying it, or that he never intended on saying it, but he’s never known when to pick the right moment, mostly because he never _picks_ a moment. It just sort of happens. 

Spencer says, “You’re an asshole, Jon Walker,” but he’s smiling and gives Jon another kiss before hurrying out after Ryan. 

Brendon runs a hot bath because he says the steam will be good for his voice and Jon sits on the floor next to the tub while Brendon bathes. He watches the way the steam curls, obscuring Brendon’s face and fogging up the bathroom mirror. His fingers flick absently at the water until Brendon catches his hand and laces their fingers together. 

“My sister used to sit with me like this, when I was too little to bathe by myself. She’d make up these awesome stories about other planets made up all of water with sharks you could ride and underwater mountains with cities inside.” Brendon’s eyes remained closed while he speaks, as if imagining it. 

“She had a baby about a month ago. I have a nephew, and I don’t know if I’ll ever be allowed to see him,” Brendon whispers. 

“Hey,” Jon says, and flicks the water with their joined hands. Brendon cracks a smile and opens his eyes just a little. “Hey, Brendon Urie.” He sits up on his knees and braces his free hand on the wall of the tub, leaning over to kiss Brendon’s upturned face. His lips are all pink and swollen from the warmth and Jon traces them with his tongue before deepening the kiss. Brendon opens for him with a sigh. 

“Hey,” Jon says, pulling back a little to nuzzle Brendon’s nose with his own. “I love you.” 

Brendon’s eyes sparkle, but he says, “You love everyone tonight.” 

“Yeah. I pretty much always love the three of you. I thought I was so obvious about it that it didn’t need to be said,” Jon says, and shrugs. 

Brendon’s smile dims and he looks down at the water lapping at his chest. Jon isn’t sure what he’s said wrong, so he doesn’t know how to fix it. “I’m ready to get out,” Brendon says, taking his hand out of Jon’s. 

Jon cleans up the dishes from dinner while Brendon dries and gets ready for bed, and when he peeks his head into the study, the futon is empty. He finds Brendon in Spencer’s bed, tucked in up to his chin. “Took cold meds Spence bought. I think they have something that makes me sleepy,” Brendon says around a yawn, words garbled but mostly intelligible. 

“So sleep,” Jon says. He climbs in with Brendon and Brendon immediately cuddles close, giving off heat like a fucking furnace. “Are you wearing Ryan’s shirt?” he asks, fingering the worn blue t-shirt that smells like Ryan’s deodorant. 

Brendon rubs his cheek against Jon’s chest and when he speaks, Jon feels like he’s hearing the words through his skin. “I still pray every night, did you know?” 

Jon shakes his head. “No,” he says, and wonders if he’ll ever get use to Brendon’s non sequiturs. 

“I don’t…I mean, I don’t think I _want_ to believe any more, even. I haven’t believed in so long, but I _wanted_ to, Jon. I thought all this helplessness and depression and all the horrible things I felt would be fixed if I could just find my faith again and I thought if I faked it enough, the faith would just come back. I used to cry, begging God to forgive me for whatever I’d done to make him leave me, begging for him to come back and let me feel his presence again…

“Then I started wondering, had I ever felt him in the first place? I thought I had; I remembered being content when I was little. I remembered believing so completely, and loving God so much, but I wondered, was it just because I’d been told so many times that I did feel it, so I just believed it.” 

Jon has always had what his parents termed healthy scepticism, and he was never really subjected to religion beyond the occasional trip with his grandparents when they babysat him. He’s never really thought about it, never been given any reason to, until now. Now he’d just like to hunt down all the people that hurt Brendon, that caused all the psychological damage, and he wants to hurt them back. 

Brendon yawns again, long and drawn out. “I guess it’s just habit, but I’m sort of worried that if I don’t pray, something bad will happen. Well…something worse.” He laughs. “I never told Ryan. I thought maybe he’d think I was weak, or stupid. But now I wish I had said something. I think I underestimated him so badly.” 

“You’ll make it up to him, Brendon,” Jon says. He runs his fingers through Brendon’s ever-lengthening hair, damp and sweet smelling beneath Jon’s chin. 

“Yeah,” Brendon mutters, “by shutting up so I don’t fuck my voice up any worse.” 

Jon chuckles and they both fall silent. It’s barely a minute later that Brendon’s out like a light. 

“Your boyfriends aren’t going to be jealous, us being out together, are they?” Ryan taunts, when they step into the bar. “Or maybe they’re used to the cheating by now.” 

“Quit being a dick,” Spencer says, grabbing Ryan’s elbow, tighter than strictly necessary, and leading him to a table in the back. 

Ryan jerks out of his grip, unloads his coat and bag, and makes for the dance floor. Spencer stays close on his heels, grabbing his wrist before he gets very far. “ _What_ is your problem, Spence?” Ryan demands, almost shouting over the roar from the speakers. 

“Just want to make sure you remember who you’re here with,” Spencer says, leaning in to speak against Ryan’s ear. He isn’t usually overly possessive in his romantic relationships, but he’s _always_ been possessive of Ryan when he probably didn’t have the right. He feels that he has the right now. 

“I didn’t ask you to come with me,” Ryan says, but he doesn’t struggle when Spencer begins to move them to the music. Spencer might not dance as much as Ryan, or enjoy it as much, but he is _good_ at it. Better than Ryan. Ryan is a slutty dancer, making up for his lack of rhythm by plastering himself up against people and rubbing. 

Spencer totally agrees with the school of thought that says dancing is like sex standing up with clothes on. He shifts his hold on Ryan, wrapping his arms around Ryan’s waist to rest gently on the subtle, almost nonexistent swell of Ryan’s ass. His fingers curl against the small of Ryan’s back, where his shirt leaves a strip of bared skin. 

“I’ll do you a favour and forget you said that,” Spencer says. 

Ryan drapes his arms over Spencer’s shoulders and lets Spencer take the lead. “Why should I care?” Ryan asks. 

“Because if you’re nice to me, I’m going to let you fuck me,” Spencer says, and when he rolls his hips, it’s with purpose, in time to the beat. 

Ryan narrows his eyes, considering. Spencer can almost hear the gears turning in Ryan’s head, weighing his own desires—along with the fact that he can be as loud as he wants trying to make Jon and Brendon feel as miserable as he felt—against the potential for disaster. 

As he thinks, Ryan moves in counterpoint to Spencer. Ryan might not be the best at creating his own moves, but he’s pretty good at following Spencer’s lead. It’s just one of a few dozen ways they compliment one another so well. 

“So you basically came along tonight to cock block me,” Ryan drawls. 

“I’m not cock blocking,” Spencer whispers against the skin of Ryan’s throat. “I’m making it very easy for you to get laid.” He knows he could have done this last night, if he’d tried, but after Ryan’s mini-meltdown in the shower he decided it was maybe too much for one night. 

“Besides, we both know you wouldn’t have fucked anyone else tonight,” Spencer says. Ryan snorts, but he doesn’t try to deny it, looking at some point over Spencer’s shoulder because he knows it’s the truth. 

The song changes to something slower and Spencer lets one hand slip lower, palming Ryan’s ass and giving a little squeeze. Ryan jumps at the touch, hips pressing tight against Spencer’s and if Spencer didn’t already know Ryan was interested, there’s the proof. 

“So,” Ryan says, “are you just going to keep fucking them and me both?” 

“Are you going to ask me not to?” Spencer asks. 

“Fuck,” Ryan says, and he’s pissed. “Have you been taking lessons from Jon on how to be a manipulative asshole?” 

Spencer laughs meanly. “Like I needed to. I’ve been _your_ friend for the past fourteen years.” 

“Fuck you,” Ryan says in a pleasantly pissy tone. 

“That’s what I’m saying,” Spencer says and that gets a reluctant smile from Ryan. It shuts him up, at least. 

They’ve danced together before, for fun, but it’s always been safe. Spencer was always aware of the boundaries he shouldn’t overstep and he stayed well away from them. Now that he doesn’t have to anymore, the freedom is a little overwhelming. 

Spencer is bold with his touches—he can tuck his fingers under Ryan’s waistband, get his leg between Ryan’s, tug at Ryan’s knee until his leg is snug over Spencer’s hip and they’re pressed close. 

Ryan responds with touches of his own, first tickling at the back of Spencer’s neck, tracing the whirl of his ear. He leans closer to trace the path of his finger with his tongue, biting hard at Spencer’s earlobe, all the while rocking his hips against Spencer’s. 

Anyone watching them must think they’re a couple and it seems like such a preposterous idea. They’ve been just friends—best friends—for so long that it just seems absurd to think of them any other way. The analytical part of Spencer’s brain keeps trying to suggest that maybe Ryan’s just doing this to get back at Brendon and Jon. 

Then Ryan gasps against Spencer’s ear and says, “I think I’ve had enough of the club for tonight.” 

“We haven’t been here a half hour,” Spencer says, and smiles where Ryan can’t see it. He thinks Ryan knows, anyway. 

“Jesus,” Ryan says in disgust, “are you a cock tease, too, Spencer Smith?” 

“I’m a sure thing,” Spencer says, and lets Ryan drag him off the dance floor. 

The apartment is all dark when they get back and Spencer is tempted to check on Brendon and Jon, but not enough that he’ll leave Ryan alone right now. Ryan gives him a little jerk towards his bedroom before letting go of his hand. 

Ryan undresses quickly, and Spencer leans against the door, letting himself watch for a minute. Of course he’s seen it all, but there will never come a time when Spencer doesn’t find the sight of Ryan naked appealing. Ryan catches Spencer looking as he’s undoing his jeans and slows down, putting on a bit of a show. 

“You should probably get naked, too, if I’m going to be fucking you,” Ryan says and shimmies his hips, working out of his jeans. He’s naked beneath them and kicks them carelessly aside as he walks towards Spencer. 

“Yeah?” Spencer asks. He arches his back off the wall when Ryan starts on Spencer’s belt. Ryan’s hands shake a little as he unbuttons Spencer’s pants. 

“You honestly think this is for the best?” Ryan asks. He’s close enough to kiss. Spencer only needs to turn his head slightly to the left. He doesn’t. 

“I don’t know what’s best,” Spencer whispers. He reaches out to stroke a hand down Ryan’s cheek and Ryan subtly turns into it, lips brushing over Spencer’s thumb. “But I know that being with you is right. And being with Jon and Brendon, and I think you know it, too.” 

Ryan kisses him, and Spencer knows it’s to quiet him, but Ryan does it more gently than the night before. “I don’t want to think about them right now,” Ryan whispers. Spencer deepens the kiss, pushing back against Ryan until he gets the hint and starts backing towards the bed. 

Spencer nudges Ryan to sit and Ryan does, hands braced on the comforter as Spencer finishes undressing, kicking off his shoes and pants, shucking his shirt. Ryan’s hands come up, resting lightly against Spencer’s stomach and brushing up to his hips. 

“I can’t tell you how many times I thought about holding onto your hips,” Ryan whispers, “while you fuck my mouth or while I fuck you from behind, or just…” He trails off and presses a soft kiss to Spencer’s stomach, just below his belly button. 

“You could have,” Spencer says. He laces his fingers in Ryan’s hair, rubbing Ryan’s scalp in the way he knows Ryan loves, that sometimes makes Ryan purr in pleasure. “You could have any time you wanted.” 

“You never said anything,” Ryan says. “Whenever I got a new girlfriend, whenever I told you about the people I was sleeping with.” 

“What was I supposed to say?” Spencer asks. “I never thought you’d want…with me.” 

Ryan looks up from under his lashes and traces his lips lower. Spencer strains into the touch, skin on fire from the heat in Ryan’s eyes. “I think I may have seriously misjudged your perceptiveness, Spence.” 

“Blow me,” Spencer whispers, twining the hair behind Ryan’s ear around his finger and pushing Ryan lower. Ryan licks his lips, grin wicked, and kisses the side of Spencer’s cock. 

Spencer wants to close his eyes but he can’t. He has to see every second as Ryan opens his mouth, lips sliding over the head of Spencer’s cock and pressing close as he sucks. It’s so good it almost hurts, the sparks of sharp pleasure up Spencer’s cock and down the backs of his thighs. 

Ryan’s fingers pulse on Spencer’s hips, squeezing and relaxing, urging Spencer to move. Slowly, he rocks forward. Ryan loosens his lips, taking Spencer deeper, sucking with more force. 

Spencer braces a hand on Ryan’s shoulder to keep from falling over. “Fuck, Ryan, I can’t…you gotta let me sit down.” 

Ryan’s eyes are smirking and he does something with his tongue that makes Spencer’s eyes roll back in his head and his knees buckle. Ryan pulls off with a wet, popping sound, replacing his mouth with his hand, jerking slow and loose. “Too much to handle?” Ryan teases. 

“Shut up,” Spencer growls, smiling, and pounces. He knocks Ryan back on the sheets, kissing him, and somehow it’s become playful. Ryan twists up against him, all those pale, long limbs and slick skin sliding along Spencer’s. Spencer sort of wants to pin Ryan down and devour him. Ryan puts all his weight in his hips, urging Spencer to roll over, and Spencer gives in. 

Spencer opens his legs and Ryan settles between them, their cocks lining up. Ryan breaks the kiss, nose nudging Spencer’s, and his smile is the first real one Spencer’s seen on him since Brendon and Jon messed up. 

“Wanna?” Spencer asks, and tilts his hips up. He traces a toe along Ryan’s ankle, up his shin. 

“Later,” Ryan says. He places a sucking kiss to Spencer’s neck and shimmies down Spencer’s body, licking and kissing down Spencer’s chest. “Right now, I think you interrupted me doing something I’d like to get back to…” He pauses at Spencer’s belly and part of Spencer wants to bring his hands up and hide himself. He’s not skinny like Ryan or trim like Brendon and Jon. 

Ryan bats his hands away and nips at the skin there. His fingers brush down the crease of Spencer’s thigh, tickling, and Spencer opens his legs wider, trembling when Ryan’s fingers circle Spencer’s opening at the same time that Ryan’s mouth closes around him. 

“Wait, wait,” Spencer manages, though he’s not sure that’s what he means, or if the sounds coming out of his mouth are the same as what he means them to be. 

Ryan looks up, tracing his tongue over the head of Spencer’s cock and Spencer has to take a deep breath to keep from coming just like that. “Come here,” Spencer says, tugging and Ryan shakes his head. “No…just…turn around, I want.” 

“Oh,” Ryan says. “Yeah?” There’s a little shuffling around and then Ryan settles down, hip pressed against Spencer’s cheek. 

Spencer rolls onto his side, framing Ryan’s hips in his hands. Ryan’s cock is right there, and it’s different, having touched it last night and being faced with it now. Ryan’s longer than Jon, but not as thick, and both of them and Brendon are smaller than Spencer, though not by much. It shouldn’t be too different than touching himself, or the others, but it is, because it’s _Ryan_. 

Ryan, who Spencer’s shared a bed with more nights than Spencer can count. Who’s Spencer’s watched sleeping, listening to Ryan’s breathing, wanting to be closer. Ryan, who’s way more experienced. Spencer’s heard the stories of what some of Ryan’s girlfriends have done. 

Ryan, who swallows Spencer all the way down and starts sucking again, apparently sharing none of Spencer’s concerns. Spencer takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second, just enjoying the sensation. Then he slits his eyes open and leans forward, wetting his lips before wrapping them around Ryan’s cock. 

Spencer closes his hand around what he can’t get in his mouth, squeezing a little, experimenting. Ryan shifts his hips and hums around Spencer’s cock, and that seems like a good thing. A very good thing from where Spencer’s sitting, because right now, he’ll do whatever he can to get Ryan to keep doing that. 

As amazing as it feels, Ryan’s mouth on him, Ryan’s fingers back between his thighs, Spencer almost wishes he could touch Ryan without the distraction. Ryan’s skin is hot and silky smooth and he _tastes_ …

Actually, once he gets into it, Spencer finds it isn’t so difficult to focus on Ryan—on both what he’s doing to Spencer and what Spencer’s doing to him. They keep giving and taking back and forth, and Spencer doesn’t feel the usual urgency he does during sex. 

It’s more comfortable, more natural, almost like an extension of the easy way they fell into being friends, how they should have easily fallen into this and even though it’s been a struggle, it doesn’t have to be any more. 

When Spencer’s close, he pulls back to warn Ryan. Ryan traces a hand down Spencer’s cheek, guides him back down onto Ryan’s cock. Whispers _me too_ , the words a buzzing sensation where Ryan’s lips touch Spencer’s skin. 

Spencer thought people only came together in movies and bad romance novels, not in real life, but when he finally feels himself shaking apart, Ryan’s right there with him, moaning around Spencer’s cock, hipbones sharp in Spencer’s palms. Spencer’s never let a guy come in his mouth before, but it just seems natural to let Ryan do it now, and he feels Ryan swallowing around him. 

“Jesus,” Spencer pants, laying his cheek on Ryan’s thigh. Ryan chuckles, fingers playing through Spencer’s hair. “God, I love you, Ryan,” Spencer says, and kisses the quivering muscle running up the underside of Ryan’s leg from the back of his knee. 

Ryan breathes deeply, and Spencer can hear Ryan’s heartbeat calming. If they had on clothing, this could be any other time they’ve lain in bed together. Ryan’s fingers tighten in Spencer’s hair and give a little tug. “C’mere.” Spencer lets Ryan drag him around, lets Ryan wrap him up in skinny arms. 

“You think we need anyone else?” Ryan asks. “You were the only person I trusted for fourteen years, and then I let Jon and Brendon in, too, and they proved you are the only one who was worthy of that trust. And this…this Spence, is really good. Why do we need them?” 

Spencer lets his tongue trace idle patterns over Ryan’s collarbone, mulling it over in his head. Maybe if they’d done this before they’d met Jon, it wouldn’t even be a concern. Even now Spencer wishes that he could be content with just this, just Ryan. He thinks if Ryan said no, definitively, and told Spencer not to be with Jon or Brendon any longer, Spencer would do it. 

He plans on making sure Ryan _doesn’t_ ask that. 

“I think you never would have let us have this, if not for Jon, if not for Brendon having been with you first,” Spencer says. “I wouldn’t have been bold enough to even try for it.” 

Ryan sighs and lets Spencer go, rolling onto his side away from Spencer. “We have exams early.” 

Spencer knows it’s probably driving Ryan crazy to hear that he’s not enough alone, but Spencer’s been giving Ryan exactly what he wants for years, until now. It’s what kept them stagnant, never moving beyond friendship. In a way, Spencer thinks it might even be partly to blame for Ryan’s continued inability to deal with things like a regular human being. Spencer’s always indulged Ryan, rather than challenging him to grow up. 

“It isn’t weakness to let them back in. I know it’s hard for you,” Spencer says. “But whenever you’re ready…” He rolls closer and lays his arm over Ryan’s waist. Ryan laces their fingers together, squeezing, whether in acknowledgement of what Spencer’s said, or as warning to not say anymore, Spencer isn’t certain. He closes his eyes and waits until he knows Ryan’s asleep before he allows himself to relax enough to sleep, too. 

Tuesday comes more quickly than Ryan anticipated, and when he finishes his exams for the day, his stomach is nothing but a mess of fluttering nerves. He doesn’t eat breakfast or lunch and paces around the living room waiting for everyone else to get home. 

Brendon is the first back, finishing his shift at Starbucks at two. He doesn’t say anything when he comes in. He hasn’t really said anything directly to Ryan since Ryan told him not to. It should please Ryan that Brendon’s doing as he said, but Brendon barely even responds when anyone addresses him. It makes Ryan a little sick to watch, actually, even while he tells himself that Brendon deserves it. 

“What are you wearing tonight?” Ryan asks. 

Brendon shrugs. “I’ll wear whatever you tell me to,” he says in a low voice. 

Ryan maybe feels like starting a fight, but then again, right before their show doesn’t seem like the best time for it. Instead, he goes into his room, where most of Brendon’s clothes still are, and digs around until he comes up with a combination that he thinks Pete will approve of. 

Brendon comes in and sits on the edge of the bed and Ryan is worried Brendon’s going to try to have another chat, or something, but Brendon just sits there, hands in his lap, and watches as Ryan rifles through their clothes. 

Maybe it’s seeing Brendon in his bedroom, and the fact that it hasn’t been so very long since they were fucking, but Ryan just wants to draw Brendon close and ask him what the matter is. Instead he tosses Brendon’s pinstripe slacks at him and says, “Put those on.” 

Brendon doesn’t bother going into the bathroom or turning around and why should he, after all. Ryan tells himself to look away, but he can’t quite manage to take his eyes away. Brendon’s wearing briefs as usual and there are fading bruises on his hips, just visible over the waistband of the pinstripes when he pulls them on. 

“Why did you do it?” Ryan whispers, before he can stop himself. 

Brendon’s face snaps up, eyes locking with Ryan’s. “Ryan,” he says, “I was so messed up. After I told my parents about us I was just so fucked up, and I know that doesn’t excuse it. I’m not trying to excuse it. But I thought about what I had just lost, and I thought I was going to lose you anyway, eventually. I thought you didn’t really want to—I didn’t think we were going to last and I know it’s fucked up.

“I didn’t tell Jon, not all of it, because I knew he’d be angry, but I thought, ‘I’m going to lose you anyway, I might as well get it over with.’ Except I knew right away, after, that I was just using that as an excuse and I was scared, Ryan, please.” 

What Ryan really wants is to say _make this better_ , and accept whatever Brendon says or does. It’s stupid and weak. He’s never been this guy before. The girls who cheated on him in the past never got any second chances. He never even spoke to them again, after. 

He thinks about Jon talking about unhealthy relationships and thinks this must be a good sign as to how unhealthy it would be to continue with Brendon. To give him another chance to hurt Ryan. 

“I changed my mind,” Ryan says, and Brendon must be able to hear his heart beating, it’s so loud. He swallows and tries to make his voice come out unaffected. “I don’t want to know. I don’t care.” Brendon must be able to tell he’s lying, it’s so obvious. 

“Ryan,” Brendon says, but he drops his hands to his side uselessly and stops. 

“Those pants are good,” Ryan says. He pushes aside some of the things piled on his bed and fishes out a white button down and a black and silver vest. “Spence has a tie that will work with this. He gives Brendon a defiant look, silently daring him to veto the choice, or try to continue with the conversation. 

But Brendon just nods, clenching the shirt and vest in his fists. “I’ll go shower.” 

Spencer and Jon get home from their finals after four and then the apartment becomes a flurry of activity, both of them rushing to get showered and get dressed. Ryan closes his bedroom door and puts his iPod in the dock, turning it up loud enough to block out the outside noises. 

Ryan’s been messing around with his makeup long enough that he can do it pretty quickly when necessary. Right now, he feels like taking his time. It’s almost calming, going slowly through each step—powder, first, in case he makes any mistakes, and though he usually just does his base eye colour by hand, tonight he masks it off with tape. 

Blue base tonight, a fine line of black liquid lining the shape of his eye, and gold for accents and to bring out the colour of his eyes. Sometimes he draws shapes and patterns reminiscent of animals or insects, or he’ll paint his eyes in a vivid rainbow of sunset bleeding into stars. Tonight the lines are more abstract, swirls and curves like the swelling and cresting of waves. Just a touch of shading on his cheeks to bring out the structure of his face. 

He dresses in plain black slacks and white shirt to balance with the vest. Jon and Spencer have given him so much shit about the vest in the past, but Ryan loves it and he’s been saving it for just this occasion. Some of the roses are misshapen from being pressed in the closet too long, but he fluffs them up a bit and it looks good as new. He’s half expecting Jon to start teasing him when he comes out, before he remembers that with things as they currently are, Jon isn’t even speaking to him really. Which is how Ryan prefers things. 

They all look awesome—just how he’s imagined—and they’re all patient while Ryan does their makeup; just eyeliner for Jon and Spencer, but blush and lip gloss for Brendon. He looks so beautiful that it’s difficult for Ryan to keep his hands to himself, but he does. 

Jon’s talked to Tom about getting their stuff to the venue, so, just before six, Siska and the Butcher show up with a van and help load everything up. Ryan refuses to be impressed that Jon got two rock stars to come lug their shit around for them. 

On the car ride over Brendon keeps tapping against his thigh like it’s a keyboard. He used to do that against Ryan’s skin in bed, and Ryan has to look away. Jon and Siska get into an argument about what pizza is superior and Ryan almost snaps at them to shut up before he realises that maybe he doesn’t want to make a bad impression on friends of Pete. Well, other than Jon. 

Spencer grabs Brendon’s hand, stilling him, and Ryan, relieved, takes Spencer’s free hand. Brendon looks at each of them in turn, and then at Ryan’s hand in Spencer’s. Spencer lifts Ryan’s hand, pulling slightly and Ryan lets him, until he realises that Spencer means to put Ryan’s hand in Brendon’s. Ryan jerks back as if burnt, shooting Spencer a dark look, and staring out the window the rest of the way. 

It’s Tuesday night and it’s early, plus there are finals going on, but the club is packed, anyway. The word of mouth in the Chicago scene is sort of infamous, so Ryan isn’t really surprised. 

Inside it’s like a Decaydance/Fueled by Ramen party. There are plenty of people Ryan recognises from auditioning them or just seeing them at clubs, but mingled throughout are the members of every Chicago based band on Pete’s label, and a few of the East Coast ones, too. 

Ryan’s nerves are off the chart, making him feel like his insides are going to burst, skin not thick enough to hold them in place anymore. They’re hustled backstage and he’s glad to be away from the crowd, at least for now. These are people who he knows, even if not very well. He’s terrified of this all falling apart where they can all see it. 

Pete finds them backstage in a tiny room that Ryan thinks has to be a broom closet, not a dressing room. He and Jon share some complicated handshake thing and a quick hug and then Pete tugs Brendon into a bear hug and whispers something in Brendon’s ear that makes Brendon close his eyes and nod into Pete’s shoulder. Pete releases him and squeezes Brendon’s forearms like in reassurance. 

Then Pete turns to Spencer, reaching out and Spencer grabs his wrist and says, “I swear to god, Pete, if you pinch my fat again, I will end you.” Pete laughs and takes his hand back and Ryan would just like to know when everyone in his band except him got to be on hugging and teasing terms with Pete Wentz. 

“So,” Pete says, facing Ryan. “I think Spence promised you’d be making me wish I’d thought up your lyrics first.” 

Ryan swallows and wants to kiss and smack Spencer both at the same time for saying so. He can’t think of anything to say, so he just nods once, decisively. 

Pete claps his hands together. “Great. You guys are up first tonight. See you out there.” 

Then comes the waiting. Jon and Spencer take care of helping out the house technicians get the stage set up, and soon members of other bands that are performing start coming and going, talking loudly with one another about Pete Wentz being in the audience. Ryan thinks he’s going to be sick. 

“Are you nervous?” he asks Brendon, not because he _wants_ to talk to Brendon, but because he can’t help it. 

Brendon looks at Ryan and blinks, then looks back at the traffic bustling around in the corridor outside the door. “No,” he says, face and tone expressionless. 

Ryan believes him, and wants to demand how the hell Brendon can be anything but nervous, with what’s about to follow. Instead he scowls and says, “Don’t fuck it up.” He gets up before Brendon can answer. 

“Hey,” Spencer says, when Ryan sidles up to him in the wings of the stage. Spencer puts an arm around his shoulders and squeezes reassuringly. “We’ve got this.” 

Jon and Brendon join them, Jon fiddling with his bass, Brendon unnaturally still, like he used to be on his meds. The lights go down and the house music dies. Suddenly, the roar of conversation is deafeningly loud. 

None of them say anything as they take their places on stage. Brendon seats himself behind the keyboard, adjusting the microphone to the proper height. Ryan picks up his guitar and thinks, _I’m not ready, I’m not ready, it isn’t supposed to feel like this_. 

Then the lights go up and silent, still, sad Brendon is gone. In his place is the bright, charismatic, glowing Brendon who sang in Ryan’s living room. “Good evening, everyone,” Brendon says, voice low and slightly playful. He trips his fingers in a quick, lively tumble of notes over the keyboard. “We’re Panic! at the Disco.” 

Brendon shares a quick look with Spencer and they start the song as though they’ve practiced it a hundred times instead of a dozen. _Is it still me who makes you sweat_ , Brendon sings and the words shouldn’t affect Ryan like they do. _Brendon’s_ the one who cheated, Brendon’s the one who did something wrong. 

Ryan almost forgets when it’s his part, opening his mouth at the last second and somehow making sound come out. He’s aware of the eyes in the crowd shifting from Brendon to him and back again, as they sing back and forth. He’s ridiculously glad when they’re finished with the chorus and the focus is all back on Brendon again. 

Of course Brendon sounds good, and he plays the role perfectly, because this man playing the piano, singing these words in that sexy, dangerous voice, isn’t the same man Ryan’s spent the last two months falling in love with. 

By the end of the second chorus there are people moving to the music, no longer just watching but pushing close to the stage, really _listening_. A sharp thrill of relief and disbelief skips over Ryan’s shoulders and through his stomach. He feels less like an automaton going through the motions, grip loosening on the neck of his guitar. 

Brendon stands when the song finishes, going to the microphone set at the front of the stage and Spencer and Jon easily fall into a transition when Brendon begins to speak. “That was called _Lying is the Most Fun a Girl Can Have Without Taking Her Clothes Off_ ,” he says, and while Ryan’s pretty sure none of them get the reference, the crowd gives an approving cry. 

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees, licking his lips and wiggling his brows at some of the girls in the front row and they fucking _swoon_. And, well, Ryan knew Brendon was sexy, but this is just sort of ridiculous. 

“Any of you dancers out there?” Brendon calls, and there are more cries. He smiles, and Ryan can see what none of the crowd can, the place where the smile is stretched too tight to be happiness. Closer to misery. “This one’s for you.” 

This time, when Brendon goes into _shotgun wedding_ for the second time, there are people in the crowd shouting it back to him. They segue smoothly into _Sins_ and that one gets the best response yet. Ryan can understand. Brendon’s only sung it a handful of times at the apartment, but he’s _on_ tonight, scornful and scathing and downright malicious looking. He prowls across the stage, somehow managing to spit the lyrics out while simultaneously maintaining the musicality. 

Ryan’s starting to sweat under the lights, but he doesn’t mind. It feels like a beginning, like he’s just warming up, and he can’t believe they only have one song left. Even with the response they’re getting, he doesn’t dare search out Pete’s face in the crowd, terrified of what he’ll see there. 

_Build God_ is the riskiest choice, Ryan knows, especially to go out on. All the others he picked for tonight because he knew hooks. This one is one of his favourites, but he knows that doesn’t mean it will be a hit with the crowd. Still, he thought it only fair to give Pete a fair representation of what he was getting. 

Turns out he didn’t have a reason to worry. Maybe they’re not moving around as much, but the crowd is still pressed close to the edge of the stage, hands in the air, hanging on Brendon’s every word. It’s a little disconcerting, but there are even girls on Ryan’s side of the stage staring at him, especially when it’s his turn to sing. 

“Thank you so much!” Brendon says, and he sounds so sincere. “I hope you liked what you heard.” 

They’re barely off the stage five seconds before someone starts chanting for an encore. Soon it’s caught on, and it throbs behind Ryan’s ears, making him feel dizzy. He looks blindly at Spencer, then to Jon and Brendon. 

One of the guys from the other band nudges Brendon. “Seriously. Go ahead.” 

“But we—” Ryan says, because he hadn’t anticipated this, doesn’t know what to do. 

“We can do _Camisado_ ,” Brendon says. “I can do it. Or _She Had the World_.” 

“ _Northern Downpour_ ,” Jon says. They’ve not worked with that one as much, but when Jon had first come up with the melody, Ryan had been compelled to write the lyrics, and Brendon loved it so much he’d learned all the words before Ryan even knew Brendon could sing. 

“That doesn’t really fit with the others,” Ryan says, biting at his lip. The crowd is still chanting. Brendon doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t have to for Ryan to know he wants to sing it. “Fine. We’ll do it.” 

Brendon slings his guitar over his shoulder and leads the way back on stage. The chanting stops, swallowed up by cheers. “Thanks so much, guys,” Brendon says. “This is a little different from the other stuff. A little newer. I hope you still dig it.” 

He looks to Ryan to start, stepping close, watching Ryan’s fingers moving as he responds on his own guitar. Jon joins in behind them with the bass line and Brendon steps back to the microphone. This should feel like everything coming together, but Ryan’s never felt more distant from the three people most important to him. 

Sure, it could be that the refrain goes on forever, but it’s still really gratifying and touching that by the end, all the audience is singing _sugarcane in the easy morning, weathervanes my one and lonely_. Jon and Brendon share a smile when Jon comes in with _hey moon_ and Ryan wants to be part of that smile. He swallows over a lump in his throat and hears Spencer coming in for the last verse, voice joining theirs, sweet and imperfect. 

There is a moment of silence as their voices die out, and Ryan holds his breath. Then everyone is cheering. As soon as Ryan’s off the stage, Pete Wentz is there, smiling and saying, “So, about that recording contract.” 

They get shoved back in the tiny little closet with Pete and Patrick, and Pete is suddenly in business mode, asking about how many songs they have and how they were kinda doing a few different things on stage, what were they thinking for the album, and Ryan hasn’t thought that far ahead, but Jon helps fill in where Ryan can’t make his mouth work. 

Then Patrick’s talking about touring and Pete’s saying things about getting them into a studio and listing names of producers and Patrick’s weighing in on which he thinks will work best with Panic!’s sound. They’re setting up a meeting for Panic! to come in to the office and look over contracts on Thursday, and Ryan didn’t realise this could happen so quickly. 

“You’re not going to be finishing school any time soon,” Pete says, looking at Jon. “You’re going to be living out of a van. You won’t see your friends or family for months on end.” 

“This is what we want,” Jon says and Brendon says, “This is my family.” Ryan looks at them both but neither of them will meet his gaze. He crosses his arms over the empty feeling in his stomach. 

Pete gives them a long once over, and when his eyes fall on Ryan, Ryan feels as though Pete’s reading every secret in Ryan’s life, and judging. Then Pete smiles and says, “Come party with your new extended family, then.” 

It’s no surprise that Jon’s met with hugs and pats on the back and lots of cheering, but Spencer seems to know everyone, too, joking easily with Joe and Bill and accepting the drinks he’s passed. 

Pete slings an arm over Ryan’s shoulder and leads him up to the bar. “What’re you drinking?” 

“I don’t really drink,” Ryan says, and feels utterly lame as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He should have just named something and pretended to drink it. 

But Pete says, “Cool. Coke? Juice?” 

“C-coke’s good,” Ryan mutters and Pete nods to the bartender. 

“Dude, I know you think I’m some epic asshole or something—and, okay, true enough—but I think you read me all wrong. I wasn’t trying to diss you back then. I’m glad you found Brendon.” 

“Yeah,” Ryan says. “Me too…” He glances around the room and finally spots Brendon in the back corner, talking to Jesse. Something ugly and mean rears up in him at the sight of Jesse, and he’s ready to stalk over and jump between them before he remembers that he doesn’t actually care. _Let_ Jesse be a bitch. 

Only Jesse bends over to whisper something and Brendon offers him a weak smile. Jesse smiles back and claps Brendon on the shoulder. 

“I gotta know, though, man,” Pete says, and Ryan turns quickly back to him. He gets the impression he shouldn’t be ignoring the man who just gave him everything he ever wanted on a silver platter. “What the hell was up with you guys tonight?” 

“Hmm?” Ryan arches a brow. “What do you mean?” 

“Like, you guys were awesome,” Pete explains, “and Brendon was fucking on. But it was really weird up there. Like you were all in different rooms, or something. Like you wanted to be playing to each other but you just kept in your little spaces.” 

“We were just…” Ryan takes a sip of his coke. “We were just nervous.” He thinks back to practices where he and Jon playing back and forth to each other, where Brendon got down on his knees at Ryan’s feet, singing right to Ryan, of sharing smiles with Spencer, and Jon practically climbing over the kit to play at Spence. 

It’s Pete’s turn to arch his brow. He really does look like a huge asshole. “Come on,” Pete says, and laughs a little in disbelief. 

Ryan sighs and looks down to the end of the bar where Jon is sitting on the edge of the bar, Spencer tucked between his thighs, back to Jon’s front. Jon’s arms are draped lightly over Spencer’s shoulders and Spencer’s holding one of his hands absently, talking to Siska. He can’t find Brendon at all anymore, or Jesse for that matter, and that makes him a little sick to his stomach. 

“We just. Things have been tense lately. School and work, and the band and everything,” Ryan says ineloquently. “We’ve been fighting a lot.” Then it occurs to him that Pete is, essentially, their new boss. “Not that it’s a problem. Just stress.” 

Pete takes a long swallow of his drink, gaze passing over the room before settling on one point near the stage. The third band is setting up now and the room is in relative silence. “You gotta love your band. You’ve gotta love them more than you love the band.” 

Ryan supposes that makes sense in Pete’s fucked up brain, even though it just sounds like a lot of nonsense to him. So he nods, like it’s profound. Pete snorts, totally seeing right through it. “Whatever Brendon did, it’s fucking killing him,” Pete says. 

“What do you know about it?” Ryan snaps, back going straight, and he doesn’t even care if it’s Pete Wentz, he has _no fucking right_. 

“He was pretty out of it the other night. Kept going on about how much he was in love, and how much the person he loved hated him. He was pretty careful about leaving out names and pronouns, but considering how much he mentioned you outside of that context, it wasn’t difficult to figure out.” 

“Look,” Ryan says, squeezing his glass, “this isn’t any of your business.” 

“I really am going to have to disagree with you there,” Pete says. “I can’t be signing a band that hates each other and breaks up eight months down the road.” 

“I don’t ha—you have no fucking clue, okay?” 

Pete pins him with a sort of eerily shrewd look and says, “Dude. Do you _know_ who I am? My exploits are all over the fucking internet. So don’t even play. You think I don’t see the way you keep sneaking looks at Jon and Spencer being all cosy? You think I didn’t notice how they dragged Brendon off to bed the other night? Or how Brendon was up there working the crowd like a fucking diva even though he obviously wasn’t in it? He was doing that for you.” 

“Jesus Christ, you’ve known us all of ten minutes,” Ryan says. “This is ridic—Have you been talking to Jon?” 

“Yeah, I bet most people can’t figure you out,” Pete says, and that asshole look is back again. “Bet you sort of love it, being all mysterious and impossible to pin down. Must drive you crazy when someone sees right through it all.” 

“Fuck you,” Ryan says, and slams his glass down on the counter. “Fuck you.” He pushes through the crowd. 

Pete’s laughter follows him, and he calls out mockingly, “See you Thursday, sweetie.” 

Ryan knows he could make Spencer come home with him. Knows he just needs to find Spencer’s eyes across the crowd and Spencer will see what he needs. Leave Jon behind and go with Ryan. But Spencer looks relaxed and happy, leaning back in Jon’s arms, and Ryan can’t bring himself to do it. 

That’s supposed to be _him_. It’s supposed to be all of them, celebrating together. Ryan’s supposed to be fucking _elated_. Instead he’s heading home alone before ten o’clock, and he just wants to crawl into bed and not think about Jon and Spencer smiling at each other, or Brendon and Jesse disappearing somewhere together.

He knows he’s being irrational about it. Has no reason to think that Brendon would go off with Jesse and what if Brendon did? It isn’t his place to care anymore. Only, he _wants_ it to be his place again. 

He thinks of the closeness between Spencer and Jon, just hanging out at the bar, and of the smile between Jon and Brendon on stage. He thinks of dozens of tiny moments when he felt that he was a part of them. Maybe he’s to blame for no longer fitting with them. 

He wants to again so badly. He wants more than that. His heart races at the thought, images painting themselves in his mind of how it would be, the four of them together. Watching how their closeness carries over into the bedroom, how they all read each other. He wants to see Spencer and Brendon together, all their soft skin and curves. He wants to see the contrast between them and Jon’s hard muscles. 

He can’t bring himself to say as much to them. Especially not when Brendon’s gone off with Jesse now. He wouldn’t know where to begin. It would certainly require admitting to fault on his end as well as theirs and, of course, forgiveness…

Ryan opens the apartment door and Brendon’s stretched out on the couch in sweatpants and one of Ryan’s old high school shirts, bowl of ice cream in hand. He sits up quickly, eyes wide. 

“Why aren’t you still at the party?” Brendon asks. 

“Why aren’t you?” Ryan says, and resists the urge to look around for Jesse. “Are you here alone?” He doesn’t let himself hope that Brendon is.

Brendon looks around himself in confusion, like he expects someone else to suddenly appear. “I think Jon and Spence stayed. They were still talking to people when I left.” 

“What did Jesse want with you?” Ryan demands. 

Brendon’s frown grows. “He…he wanted to apologise. He congratulated me. Said it was a better fit with me anyway.” 

“So why’d you leave?” Ryan asks, still suspicious. 

“I don’t know,” Brendon says. He shrugs, obviously uncomfortable. “I wasn’t feeling very well. I’ve—I’ve been feeling sick and the singing hurt my throat, so I just wanted some ice cream.” 

Ryan’s heart aches and he feels guilty, which is just ridiculous, and he just wants it to stop. His hurt and Brendon’s, and all of theirs. “That’s Spencer’s Rocky Road,” he says, dropping his bag by the table and sitting down beside Brendon. 

“He doesn’t mind sharing with me,” Brendon says. He scoops up a spoonful. “This was the last of it. But…I can share, too.” He holds out the spoon and Ryan leans forward slowly to close his lips around it. 

“Thanks,” Ryan says, after he swallows. He licks his lips, chasing the flavour. 

Brendon sets the bowl on the coffee table and stares at it, hands clasped in his lap. “Ryan,” he whispers, “I’m so, so sorry. I’m sorry I fucked up so bad. I know—”

“Brendon,” Ryan says, and hesitates. Brendon falls silent at once, staring hard at the melting ice cream. Ryan thinks of what Spencer said about it not being weakness to forgive, but strength. He feels this oppressive weight on his chest telling him that forgiving is too much like admitting something. He could shape the words on his tongue, but he isn’t sure he could draw the breath to speak them. 

He reaches out, laying a hand over Brendon’s and Brendon looks up at him, eyes hopeful and resigned at the same time. “You were amazing tonight,” Ryan says. He strokes his thumb over the back of Brendon’s hand and Brendon turns his hand over, fingers curling slightly inward. Ryan considers the invitation, the muscles in his arm heavy and protesting, and yet he somehow manages to lace his fingers in Brendon’s. They twitch, but Brendon closes his fingers fast, holding on tight, and Ryan doesn’t pull away. 

“Told you you’d be a rock star,” Brendon says, smiling sadly and fondly, looking at their hands. 

Ryan whispers back, and it feels like every nightmare he’s ever had, where he can’t speak and no matter how hard he tries, the words come out twisted and mangled beyond recognition. His throat feels weak, his tongue fluttery and useless, and the words feel more swallowed than spoken. He says, “Told you you’d be a rock star’s boyfriend.” 

“Ryan,” Brendon says, voice reverent, like Ryan’s name is a prayer. Brendon makes it almost _easy_ for Ryan to keep going.

Ryan feels stronger now, surer, though it still sounds like a dare when he says, “I guess you’ll have three rock star boyfriends, instead.” 

“Ryan,” Brendon says again, voice stronger. His mouth quavers, like it isn’t sure whether or not to smile and his eyes are lined in tears, ready to fall. Ryan reaches up with his free hand, tracing a thumb under Brendon’s eyes one at a time, brushing away the moisture, and Brendon doesn’t even blink. 

“You don’t have to,” Brendon says and he’s talking fast, words tripping over themselves to get out. “You don’t have to, Ryan, we don’t have to, I just want. We all just want to be with you, and if you don’t want to be _with_ us with us—”

“Brendon,” Ryan says, and he laughs a little. It sounds almost hysterical, but he can’t help it. The weight in his chest is gone. It’s been sitting there over a week and it’s just gone and he feels light and easy, and scared that it can’t possibly last. “Shut up. I want to be with you with you. All of you.” 

“Ryan,” Brendon says again, touching a hand to Ryan’s cheek. He doesn’t say anything else, but he doesn’t need to. Ryan turns his head, brushing his lips over Brendon’s fingertips. 

Ryan runs a hand down Brendon’s shoulder, tugs playfully at the t-shirt. “You’ve been stealing my shit?” 

Brendon blushes and ducks his head. “I’ve missed you so much,” he says. “I’ve been so scared. I lost you and my family, and I could barely think about what it meant to lose my family because all I could think about was how wrong it felt to have you angry with me.” 

“Hey…” It shouldn’t be so easy to just slip back into this, but he’s felt this protectiveness for Brendon since the beginning. He pulls Brendon into his arms and when Brendon clings back, it’s this sensation of relief, of everything falling into place. 

There are so many shitty things Ryan has done to people he loves—to Spencer, in particular, but to Jon and Brendon as well. Things more hateful, more ill-intentioned than a one night stand. Jon wasn’t that for Brendon. Maybe then Ryan wouldn’t be able to forgive it, but this…he’s wondering if it’s even anything he should have to forgive. If he and Jon hadn’t been such _assholes_ to each other for months, maybe Brendon turning to Jon would have just been a natural extension of the relationship they all shared. 

“Hey,” Ryan soothes, and presses a kiss against Brendon’s hair. 

Brendon shakes his head, voice rising. “You shouldn’t even be forgiving me. I can’t…I know I fucked up so bad, I can’t… My parents always said…” Ryan can’t even understand half of what Brendon’s saying, words muffled by tears and Brendon’s hands pressed against his own mouth. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me, wanting this, because I love you.” 

Ryan hugs him tighter, feeling helpless fluttering in his chest, thinking of all the times they’ve fucked, and how innocent and sincere Brendon always was, how impossible it was for Ryan to miss how much of himself Brendon was giving away. Now Ryan’s just another person making Brendon feel guilty, feel like he isn’t good enough, like he’s doing something dirty or wrong when he’s just got so much love to give and no one’s ever given any back. 

“Brendon.” Ryan grabs Brendon’s hands tight and nudges at Brendon’s head with his nose, pressing kisses over Brendon’s forehead, down his cheeks. He rests their foreheads together and takes a deep breath. 

Ryan gets up, pulling Brendon with him to the bathroom and puts the lid down on the toilet before making Brendon sit. He passes Brendon a wad of toilet paper and turns on the shower as hot as it goes, letting the steam work its magic. Brendon blows his nose noisily and Ryan smiles at him, sitting at Brendon’s feet with a damp washcloth, and says, “It must be real, if I love you when you’re all sick and gross.” 

Instead of looking happy about it, Brendon looks miserable, staring at Ryan’s lap. “Hey,” Ryan says, and shakes Brendon’s knees. He sits up on his heels and dabs the washcloth at Brendon’s cheeks, fever bright from the tears or his cold. He imagines this is what Brendon looked like when he came home from talking to his parents, and Ryan can’t even blame Jon for doing what he did. In fact, he sort of wants to thank him. 

“Look,” he says, trying to sound stern, but just coming across wobbly. “If there’s something wrong with you, then it’s wrong with all four of us. Because we all want the same thing. What’s wrong is what I did to you…and you loved me anyway. Now you’re giving me this. The three of you.” Ryan lays his head on Brendon’s lap and is gratified when Brendon’s hands tangle in his hair. 

Spencer’s touch is wonderful in its own way, but Ryan’s missed this touch, that knows him in a different way. He knows now that Spencer will learn different touches, too, more intimate ones, but he thinks it will always be different and he’ll always crave them both. He doesn’t know as well what Jon’s will be like, but he shivers in anticipation of learning. 

It’s so sudden, his acceptance, and he’s frankly terrified about what that means. If it will end just as quickly. But he’s too overwhelmed by how _freeing_ it feels to give in that he pushes the fear away and focuses on Brendon’s hand in his hair, Brendon’s skin warm through his sweatpants. 

“I’m going to do whatever you want,” Brendon says. “Anything you want to make this better.” 

Ryan lifts his cheek to meet Brendon’s eyes and he smiles. “Brendon. I don’t want anything else.” He pushes up on his palms, feeling Brendon’s muscles quiver under his weight, and he kisses Brendon’s swollen lips. 

“You should shower with me,” Ryan says, still against Brendon’s lips. He’s gone too long without kissing them that he can’t bring himself to pull away right now. “You’ll feel better.” He curls his fingers at the hem of Brendon’s shirt, waiting, and Brendon nods before kissing Ryan again. He lifts his arms for Ryan to pull the shirt off. 

Ryan gets to his feet and Brendon stands with him, reaching for the buttons on Ryan’s vest. “I like this,” he says. “It’s like a corset. It makes you look all curvy.” 

Ryan chuckles, pulling his arms behind his back so Brendon can slide the vest off his shoulders. “Jon and Spence have threatened to burn it.” 

“I’ll challenge them to a duel for its honour,” Brendon says and Ryan smiles big. He kisses Brendon again, sinking his teeth into Brendon’s bottom lip and Brendon breaths in deep and lets out a tenuous breath. “I’ve missed you so much,” Brendon says. 

“No more missing,” Ryan says. “I’m here.” The vest crumples to the floor and Ryan puts his hand to Brendon’s skin, always warm, but hotter than usual, and so smooth that Ryan’s skin feels rough in contrast. He slides his hands over Brendon’s ribs, around his back, palms flat against Brendon’s spine and Brendon arches into him, goes up on his toes for a deeper kiss. His fingers work between them, unbuttoning Ryan’s shirt. 

_This_ , Ryan thinks, _is what Brendon’s first time should have been_. Slow, unhurried, tender. Maybe that isn’t how it usually is in real life, but Ryan should have taken more care; he’d _known_ how fragile Brendon was. It’s sort of amazing that Brendon ever spoke to him again after it, let alone fell in love with him. He should apologise for it, but they have time now. 

Brendon lets out a groan of pleasure when he steps under the spray of water. Ryan steps in behind him, pressing against Brendon’s back, all slippery skin to slippery skin and it feels delicious. He wraps his arms around Brendon’s waist, fingers resting over Brendon’s belly, teasing. Brendon makes the best noises. 

“It was so hot on stage,” Brendon says, “I was sweating so bad. I must smell gross.” 

“Mmm…” Ryan sniffs but he just smells Brendon with a slight metallic tang. He nibbles at Brendon’s throat and Brendon makes another sound, dipping his head in submission. “I like the way you smell,” Ryan says. He lays one more kiss on Brendon’s skin before pulling away to reach for the shampoo. 

He washes Brendon’s hair first, digging his fingers into Brendon’s scalp until all the tension is gone from Brendon’s shoulders and he’s just sagging against the shower wall. Brendon’s hands are bolder now, stroking over Ryan’s hips, thumb skating lower and lower. Ryan directs him under the water, washing away the shampoo, and when Brendon pulls Ryan in for another kiss, his skin is soapy slippery. 

Brendon’s hands sweep over Ryan’s back to grab his ass. Ryan rolls his hips into Brendon’s, feeling Brendon growing steadily harder against his leg. Brendon slides to his knees, dusting kisses over Ryan’s hipbone, against his thigh. He tongues a bruise low on Ryan’s stomach and looks up at Ryan from under his lashes. 

“Did Spencer leave this?” Brendon asks. His voice is low and gravely like when he sings sometimes and it goes straight to Ryan’s dick. Ryan nods and Brendon closes his mouth over Ryan’s skin, sucking and nibbling, making him squirm. When he pulls back there’s another, fresh bruise alongside Spencer’s. 

Brendon grins at his handiwork and lays a smacking kiss to it before moving on, lower, tongue tracing the lines of Ryan’s body down. “I wish I could have seen you together, that first time,” Brendon says, and it’s sort of shocking how much the thought of Brendon watching excites Ryan. 

Ryan traces the shape of Brendon’s lips with his fingertip. “They should be home before too long,” he says and Brendon grins, darting his tongue out to lap at Ryan’s finger. His hands lift from the floor of the tub, closing around Ryan’s ankles and moving up, tickling at the inside of Ryan’s legs. He leans forward to suck Ryan’s cock into his mouth. Ryan’s hips fall back against the shower wall and he sighs Brendon’s name, letting his hand drop lightly to Brendon’s head. 

“Brendon,” he says, and tugs lightly. Part of him just wants to let Brendon do his thing. Brendon’s been a quick learner from the start, always really eager about giving blow jobs, and he’s fucking good at them. But mostly Ryan wants to be in bed, where he doesn’t have to worry about slipping and killing them both. “Come on. Let’s go to bed.” 

Brendon gets to his feet and steps out to dry while Ryan finishes rinsing and then Brendon lets Ryan lead him to his bedroom. Ryan pushes the piles of clothing on the bed to the floor and Brendon lays himself out over the comforter, spreading his legs and looking up at Ryan invitingly. 

Ryan grabs the lube from his bedside table and climbs on the bed, stretching out alongside Brendon and drawing him in for a kiss. Brendon is all about the kissing, and while Ryan generally prefers just to get straight to things, he’s willing to indulge Brendon just now. He’s missed the way Brendon kisses like he’s drowning and Ryan’s his air. But Brendon pulls away from the kiss after only a few moments, trailing bites down Ryan’s neck. Brendon tilts his hips off the bed in clear invitation. 

“I want to do something else,” Ryan says, leaning back. 

Brendon meets his gaze, smiles lazily. “Whatever you want,” he says. The thing is, Ryan knows he means it. He knows he could say anything now, ask for anything, and Brendon would give it. He doesn’t deserve that, but he swears to himself that he’ll earn it, never abuse it. 

“I want you to fuck me,” Ryan says. 

Brendon’s eyes go wide and he sits up quickly. “Are you…seriously?” 

Ryan rolls onto his back, resting on his elbows. “Have you, with the others?” Brendon shakes his head, eyes raking down the length of Ryan’s body and back up. “I’ll talk you through it.” 

Brendon’s hands are shaking when he pours the lube over his fingers but his touch against Ryan’s body is steady when he presses against Ryan’s hole. He has a look of concentration on his face, like when he’s playing something new on one of his instruments. Ryan finds that he doesn’t mind it trained on him. Especially not when Brendon gently trails a nail in a circle against the sensitive skin. 

“Fuck, Brendon,” Ryan hisses, head falling back. He’s touched himself sometimes, but never let anyone else do it. Any time in the past, if he’d offered, it would have been for the other guy but while this is for Brendon, this is for Ryan, too. He wants Brendon to fuck him, can practically feel it already. 

“This okay?” Brendon asks. 

“Jesus, yes, just…” Ryan arches his back and Brendon presses a finger inside. It feels like too much and nowhere near enough. “Yes, another one.” 

“Already?” Brendon asks uncertainly, but he does as Ryan asks, pressing his middle finger in alongside his index and working against the resistance with little wiggling motions. It’s strange, but not unpleasant, different from when he touches himself. More intense. 

He knows, from experience fucking other guys, Brendon in particular, that no matter how tight it seems, you can always make it work, but Ryan already feels stretched too far over two of Brendon’s fingers. 

Brendon lays flat on his stomach and the angle changes, lets his fingers slide in further, easier. Brendon kisses Ryan’s hip, presses his nose in the curls between Ryan’s legs, breathing deep. He mouths up the side of Ryan’s cock, teasing nips that have Ryan lifting his hips off the bed, chasing the sensation. 

The front door slams and Brendon lifts his head, fingers already starting to slip free. Ryan reaches down to grab his wrist and pushes Brendon’s fingers deeper. “Keep going,” he says. 

“George Ryan Ross!” Spencer bellows, and Brendon presses his smiling face into Ryan’s thigh and mouths _George?_ Ryan tugs on a handful of hair in retaliation. “You better have a good reason for leaving the club without telling us and not answering your fucking cell phone.” 

“ _Good_ reason,” Brendon whispers, teasing, and inches his fingers deeper. The glide is smoother, feels looser. 

“Why don’t you come in and see for yourself,” Ryan calls out, giving Brendon a reckless, devious smirk. 

Spencer opens the door and then stops dead on the threshold, watching them with an open mouth. Ryan licks his lips, arches his back, putting on a show. Brendon gets the hint, mouthing over Ryan’s cock, those gorgeous fucking lips…

“Is he here?” Jon asks, and Spencer nods his head dumbly. “Well, have you seen Bren…” Jon trails off, coming to stand beside Spencer. Brendon does that wiggling thing with his fingers again and they slide all the way in, brushing Ryan’s prostate, and when Ryan squirms and whimpers this time there’s nothing put on about it at all. 

“Just _fuck_ me,” Ryan hisses and Brendon pulls back with a smile, resting his hands on the bed on either side of Ryan’s waist. Ryan fumbles for the lube, squeezing way too much in his hand and over the bedspread, and he doesn’t fucking care. He can feel Spencer and Jon watching them, hearing their breath picking up. He slicks his hand down Brendon’s cock and Brendon’s hips stutter at the touch. “Come on,” Ryan whispers and opens his legs wider, guiding Brendon in. 

Ryan isn’t really expecting all that much, it being Brendon’s first time. But then, maybe he’s not given Brendon enough credit. He hasn’t taken into account the way Brendon moves when he’s playing, the way he his body just moves naturally to the beat. He works in gently, little swivels of his hip that make Ryan bite his tongue against crying out embarrassingly loud. 

“Are you,” Ryan tries to say, but Brendon rocks his hips hard and the words die on a groan. Ryan thrusts back on Brendon’s cock, and Brendon pulls back a few bare centimetres, teasing, letting Ryan regain control of his voice. “Are you two coming over here or what?” 

“Actually,” Jon says, and clears his throat, “I could just watch this for another couple hours.” 

Brendon chuckles, burying his face in Ryan’s throat. “I think you’re seriously overestimating my stamina,” he says. It doesn’t matter, because Ryan doesn’t think he’s going to last very long. He feels so exposed and open, raw, in the best way, and every time Brendon rocks down his stomach rubs against Ryan’s cock. 

Ryan can hear Spencer murmuring something and the rustle of clothing, but he can’t look away from Brendon’s face, looming over his. Brendon’s eyes are dark in the dim light, intense. Ryan doesn’t know how he could have ever mistaken that look for anything other than what it is. 

Ryan winds his legs around Brendon’s hips and his arms around Brendon’s shoulders, drawing him close. It makes it harder for Brendon to really thrust but he just grinds down, pushing deep, and keeps rubbing against the spot that makes Ryan cling to him and moan. 

The bed dips at Ryan’s side and then Jon’s breath is hot on Ryan’s ear, lips just brushing the skin. Spencer’s long fingers thread in Ryan’s hair, tugging his head back. Spencer kisses him possessively and Ryan whimpers into it, holding Brendon’s gaze, and Brendon kisses down Spencer’s neck. 

“Hey,” Jon murmurs, hand around Ryan’s throat, fingers curving behind his ear. He turns Ryan’s face to him and Spencer lets him go. Ryan’s having trouble focusing on anything other than Brendon moving inside him but he opens his mouth under Jon’s, meets his tongue halfway and it’s so predictably Jon, the two of them fighting for control. His scruff scratches against Ryan’s chin and Ryan sort of _loves_ it. He tries to open his mouth wider, kiss harder. 

There are hands everywhere, on Ryan’s thighs, on his hips, tracing around his nipples. Spencer fists his cock and Ryan tears his mouth away from Jon. He grabs Brendon hard by the hair at the back of his neck, jerking his head down and kissing him roughly as he comes, jerking in Spencer’s hand. 

“Fuck,” Brendon groans. “Fuck, I can’t, Ryan…”

“Come on, Brendon,” Ryan says, still working his hips. “Come on.” Because seriously, so much for not having any stamina. Not that Ryan’s complaining. Even though he’s already come, it feels really good. 

Spencer sits back on his heels and slides behind Brendon, fingers pale against Brendon’s skin. He bites at Brendon’s earlobe and whispers, too low for Ryan to hear. Whatever it is makes Brendon move faster, desperate. Ryan kisses him again, says, “Come on, babe, I love you, come on,” curling his fingers tighter in Brendon’s hair. 

Brendon shakes when he comes, like he’s falling apart, moaning Ryan’s name. He’s beautiful, throat tense, head back, eyes tightly closed, hips flush against Ryan’s ass. It’s the strangest sensation, Brendon pulsing hot and wet inside. Ryan feels his own cock stirring again already. 

“Fuck, Ryan,” Brendon pants. “That was…” He slumps heavily against Ryan’s chest, but it’s a welcome weight. Makes Ryan feel safe. “Why haven’t we been doing that since the _beginning_?” 

Ryan laughs. “I think it has something to do with me being an asshole,” he says. 

“Don’t talk about my boyfriend that way,” Brendon mutters, and Ryan smiles. Jon’s hands are on Brendon’s back, teasing in and out of Ryan’s hands, and Spencer leans over Brendon’s shoulder to kiss Ryan. 

“I’m just going to pass out for a few minutes,” Brendon says, voice tired and soft. He mouths a lazy kiss over Ryan’s collarbone and Ryan laughs into Spencer’s kiss. This feels too easy, too good. It’s scary how much he _isn’t_ scared. He hugs Brendon tighter and closes his eyes for a moment, too. 

Brendon hears kissing, and he can tell by the sound that at least one of the kissers is Spencer. Spencer’s noisy when he kisses, all smacking lips, and Brendon finds it really sexy, especially if he can’t actually be the one Spencer’s kissing. 

He forces himself to open his eyes, even as worn out as he is and sees Ryan and Spencer making out, flashes of tongue and teeth, both of them grinning giddily. Brendon almost can’t believe his eyes, or any of his senses, really. He doesn’t know how they’ve gone from where they were early this evening to where they are now. 

“Stop worrying about it,” Jon mutters, and turns Brendon’s face for a kiss. “And move your damn ass, because I think I need to fuck Ryan into the mattress.” Jon smacks his ass and Brendon squawks in protest, scrambling back. 

Ryan chuckles, spreading his legs to let Brendon move and arches a brow at Jon. “You’re fucking me, hmm?” 

Brendon’s barely out of the way before Jon pounces, grabbing Ryan’s wrists and forcing them against the bed. His mouth slants rough and possessive over Ryan’s. Ryan’s body is all one tense line from head to toe, straining against Jon’s hold. Jon might _look_ stronger, but Brendon knows Ryan has a lot of power in his arms and legs, as spindly and delicate as they may seem. 

Ryan manages to roll them over, pinning Jon’s hands at his side and sitting back on Jon’s thighs to keep him in place. Jon lunges, shoulders coming off the bed and Ryan meets him halfway for another kiss. There’s something animalistic about it, all snarling and desperate. Brendon can’t take his eyes off them. 

Jon growls against Ryan’s mouth and bucks his hips, catching Ryan off balance and they roll towards the foot of the bed, fighting for control. Brendon’s half worried they’re going to fall on the floor, but Ryan hooks a thigh around Jon’s hips and comes up on top again, grinning against Jon’s mouth. 

He reaches blindly for the lube, getting the cap off and his hand coated. Jon follow each movement eyes darting back and forth, looking for an opening, but Ryan’s got one hand still on Jon’s wrist, pinning Jon’s other hand with his knee. 

Spencer gets up on all fours, crawling down the bed and leans into Ryan’s side, pressing a kiss to his cheek. Ryan’s shoulders relax and Spencer bends his head, kissing the back of Ryan’s neck, down his spine. 

It happens so quickly that Brendon almost doesn’t process it, but Spencer lifts his hand, tickling a spot high on Ryan’s ribs and Ryan squirms and loosens his grip on Jon. That’s all it takes for Jon to get Ryan on his back, legs forced open by Jon’s knees. 

“That’s—that’s cheating,” Ryan protests, fighting all the way. 

Spencer shrugs, looking unrepentant, and cuddles against Brendon’s side. Brendon wraps an arm around Spencer’s shoulders, his other hand going to rest on Spencer’s thigh. The muscle flexes under Brendon’s touch and Brendon can’t look away from the others, but he finds Spencer’s cock by touch. Spencer rocks into the touch, reaching to return the favour. 

Jon grabs Ryan’s wrist and leads Ryan’s lube slickened hand to Jon’s dick. Ryan glares but he curls his fingers around Jon, maybe a little tight if Jon’s hiss is any indication. 

Ryan looks defiant right up to the point that Jon lines up, struggling against Jon’s hold, toes digging into Jon’s calf. Then Jon thrusts in, biting at Ryan’s pulse, and Ryan shudders, planting his feet on the bedspread and drawing them up, opening his legs wider. It’s fascinating to watch, Ryan surrendering to something.

Jon sets a hard, fast pace and Brendon remembers the first time Jon fucked him, how it felt like Jon was taking him apart and putting him back together again, better. Ryan whimpers, high pitched and needy and his hands slip from Jon’s shoulders down his back, leaving bright white and red lines. 

Ryan’s biting his lip, trying to keep from making any sounds, but Jon fucks him harder, ‘til the bed frame is rocking against the wall and Ryan is moaning, “Yes, yes, yes, Jon, please, god, _fuck me_.” 

Spencer mutters “ _Fuck_ ,” and moves his wrist faster, jerking Brendon off desperately, and Brendon returns the favour. He really wants to kiss Spencer, but he can’t stop staring at Ryan and Jon. 

Brendon always thought the two of them looked good together, knew they’d fit, but this—Jon treats Brendon and Spencer like they’re delicate; even when they beg him to fuck them harder, he always does it reluctantly. But all that control is gone now. It’s like he _knows_ exactly how much Ryan can take. 

Jon pulls out and gets up on his knees and Ryan makes a soft, protesting sound and reaches for him. Jon catches his hand and presses it back to the bed. “Roll over,” he says and Ryan narrows his eyes, like now that he’s not being fucked he’s remembered that he never meant to give in in the first place. Jon grabs his hips and shoves and tugs until he’s got Ryan on his stomach. Ryan tries to shove up on his wrists but Jon puts a hand flat on his spine, close to his neck, and pushes him back down. 

“Stay down,” Jon says, and the sound of his voice sends shivers down Brendon’s spine. He bites down on his lip and comes, trying to muffle the sound. 

Spencer’s breathing picks up and Brendon slows his wrist down, thumbing the head of Spencer’s cock, smearing his leaking precome. Jon shoots them both a dangerous grin and knees Ryan’s thighs apart, using his free hand to guide himself back in. 

Ryan struggles longer this time, bringing his legs back together, shoving his hips back, but Jon hooks his ankles around Ryan’s and pushes, spreading Ryan wide open. His hand smoothes up Ryan’s spine and closes around the back of his neck and Ryan goes limp again, submissive. 

“Fucking hell,” Spencer says, “we need a fucking video camera.” Brendon nods his approval, staring wide eyed and open mouthed. “You two, shit, fuck, Brendon…” he trails off, hips lifting off the mattress. He sounds close, desperate. 

Brendon manages to look away from Jon and Ryan, focusing instead on Spencer. His bottom lip is full and swollen and his eyes are almost all pupil. His cock is bright red in Brendon’s hand. Brendon puts a hand to Spencer’s chest and lowers his head, sucking the tip of Spencer’s cock into his mouth. Spencer grabs two fistfuls of hair and shoves up into Brendon’s mouth once, twice, and then he’s coming down Brendon’s throat, saying, “Sorry, sorry, fuck, Brendon, your mouth.” 

Brendon pulls back, wiping his mouth and grins. “You don’t have to be sorry. That was really hot.” Spencer kisses him and they only stop when Ryan starts with those fucking breathy whimpers again. 

Jon sits back on his heels and drags Ryan with him and Ryan goes like a doll, straddling Jon’s lap. Ryan’s legs are trembling under the strain and but Jon does most of the work, still fucking Ryan even though from the bottom. He wraps a hand around Ryan’s dick, and he barely has to do a thing—Ryan’s coming a few seconds later, writhing on Jon’s cock, sighing Jon’s name over and over. 

Ryan falls forward on his hands and Jon pushes his palm between Ryan’s shoulder blades again, grabs onto Ryan’s hips and slams back in, grunting when he comes, hands leaving bruises already forming on Ryan’s skin. He pulls back and Ryan’s arms go out from under him. He flops gracelessly to the bed and Jon collapses next to him, kissing him breathlessly. 

“You,” Ryan pants, between sloppy kisses, “are an asshole. And you,” he pushes Jon back with a hand to his chest and glares up at Spencer, “aren’t my best friend any more. I call orgy foul. You totally exploited best-friends-since-forever level classified knowledge.” 

“Like you didn’t love every second of it,” Spencer says. “Besides, it was only a matter of time before they figured it out themselves.” 

Ryan narrows his eyes and springs up with surprising energy to close his mouth over a spot to the left of Spencer’s belly button and just slightly higher that makes Spencer shriek with laughter, hands pushing at Ryan’s head. “Stop, stop!” Spencer manages, and Ryan flops onto his back, laying his head in Spencer’s lap. 

“Fair play, and all that,” Ryan mutters. 

“I’m in love with a bunch of dickheads,” Brendon observes mildly. “If any of you try that shit on me, I will seriously kick your asses. I _don’t_ like being tickled.” Of course, in the past when he’s told that to people, they’ve only been inspired to find all his ticklish spots. 

Jon crawls closer to them, putting his head in Brendon’s lap. He and Ryan sort of have some strange little wrestling match with their legs for a second that leaves them all tangled up, and then Ryan catches Brendon’s hand and Jon kisses Brendon’s thigh and says, “We won’t ever do anything you don’t like, Bden.” 

“You just have to tell us,” Ryan says. “None of this _I’ll do whatever you want_ shit.” 

“Seriously,” Spencer says, giving Brendon a stern look. “When did you say that? We don’t want to do anything unless you want to do it, too.” 

Brendon feels helplessly, hopelessly in love with each one of them. He traces his fingers over the lines of Jon’s face—the crinkles around his smiling eyes, the dip between his nose and lip, the curve of his jaw. “What, did you guys all get together before coming home and decide how best to gang up on me?” 

“Actually…” Spencer looks at Ryan’s head in his lap and toys with Ryan’s hair. “We were sort of worried about _you_ ,” he says, directing it to Ryan. 

“Yeah, not that I’m not loving this turn of events,” Jon says, “but, uh…what the fuck happened?” 

“Ugh,” Ryan moans, and turns his face into Spencer’s thigh. “Can we have deep, meaningful conversations tomorrow? I’m fucking exhausted.” 

Jon eyes him suspiciously. “You’re not going to wake up and kick us all out of your bed, are you?” 

“Just you, Jon Walker,” Ryan says back, all sickly sweet. Jon puts a hand to Ryan’s cheek and kisses him soft and slow. “Well,” Ryan amends, licking his lips when Jon pulls back. “I might let you back in if you bring coffee.” 

They all stumble into the bathroom, fighting over washcloths and brushing their teeth. Brendon can barely keep standing but Spencer hooks an arm around his waist and holds him upright ‘til they’re back in bed. “Whatever you did, Brendon, thank you,” Spencer says, when they’re under the covers, waiting for Jon and Ryan to join them. 

Brendon smiles to himself, face in Spencer’s chest. “I didn’t have to do anything,” he says. “Ryan just…he just forgave me.” 

“No,” Ryan corrects, coming in and throwing back the sheets to crawl in beside Brendon, “I just realised there wasn’t actually anything to forgive. Now go the fuck to sleep before I decide to change my mind.” 

Spencer doesn’t look impressed, pinching Ryan’s hip and Ryan bats at his hand until it turns into some bitch slapping fight over Brendon’s stomach. Brendon is probably never going to get used to this, ever, but he actually doesn’t mind it, so there’s that, anyway. 

Jon hits the lights on his way in and Ryan and Spencer subside, curling up around Brendon. Jon climbs in behind Ryan, strong arms reaching over Ryan to wrap around Brendon’s waist. 

Brendon wonders if he should say something, tell them all what they mean to him. But the silence doesn’t feel awkward. Ryan’s breathing is already going steady and deep like it does in sleep. Another couple minutes later, and Spencer’s snoring softly. Jon’s hand rubs over Brendon’s arm, like an answer to every question Brendon has. They’re all worn out, and he and Jon have work in the morning, and Spencer has an exam. There’s time to say all these things later. Plenty of time. 

It’s still dark when Jon’s cell phone starts buzzing to wake him. It’s warm under the covers and Jon knows the second he gets up he’s going to be freezing. Spencer’s always turning down the heat to save on their bills. 

Ryan stirs, fumbling for the phone, and hits the cancel button without opening his eyes. He snuggles closer to Jon, hand over Jon’s heart and Jon tightens his arm around Ryan’s waist. There’s a pull in Jon’s hamstring that he’s pretty sure is thanks to their struggles last night, and his thighs feel tight and sore, and it’s sort of awesome. 

“We’re gonna be rich and famous, Jon,” Ryan murmurs. “You don’t have to work at Starbucks anymore.” 

“Yeah, well, when we have sales that start actually bringing in the cash, then I’ll quit my day job,” Jon whispers back. 

“Oh ye of little faith,” Ryan says. Jon can feel Ryan’s smile against his skin. He draws Ryan up with a hand under his chin and Ryan moves, sleepy and fluid against him until they’re kissing. 

“Wake up Brendon for me?” Jon asks, when he musters up the strength to pull away and sit up. 

Ryan rolls over and Jon can hear kisses against skin and Ryan murmuring something soft and sweet sounding. Brendon stirs and makes blurry noises, rubbing his eyes. He looks so fucking adorable that Jon is tempted to just say ‘fuck Starbucks’ and go back to sleep with his boys. 

“Wha’ time ‘s it?” Brendon asks around a yawn. Without the drugs he sleeps harder and it takes him longer to wake. Jon figures it’s a fair exchange, having a sleepy and happy Brendon instead of emotionless but awake Brendon. 

“Five. We don’t have time for showers,” Jon says. He gets a hand around Brendon’s wrist and tugs him up, cause sometimes that’s the only way to get Brendon up and moving. “Get dressed.” 

Jon stumbles down to his room, going through the motions. He doesn’t have any clean aprons; he totally forgot about laundry with everything else that was going on. Brendon’s not waiting when he comes out so he goes back into Ryan’s room to find Brendon sitting on the edge of the bed, staring blankly at the pile of clothing on the floor. 

Jon chuckles quietly to himself, and searches through for a pair of khakis and a white polo. “Come on,” he whispers, and helps Brendon into the clothes, doing up a couple buttons on the shirt. He steals Brendon’s extra apron on the way out the front door, but Brendon really doesn’t care. 

It’s a crisp morning, their breath clouding in the air. As soon as the cold hits him, Brendon is awake, bouncing excitedly and swinging Jon’s hand between them. “We’re going to be _famous_ ,” Brendon says enthusiastically. “I can play whenever the fuck I want and no one will ever tell me to stop showing off, or that I can’t, because it’s my _fucking job_.” 

Jon laughs when Brendon twirls himself under Jon’s arm. He drops Brendon into a dip and kisses him right in the middle of the sidewalk at five-twenty-seven in the morning, with the city just starting to wake up around them. 

“You know what?” Brendon whispers, lips still brushing Jon’s, looking up through thick lashes. Jon shakes his head ‘no’ and kisses Brendon again, slow and searching, Brendon’s lips soft and welcoming. “As awesome as that is? Compared to having you guys, it’s nothing.” 

“You’re a sap,” Jon says, and gives him an Eskimo kiss, and Brendon grins because they both know Jon’s a sap, too. “Don’t tell Ross that. He’ll think you’re quitting the band, or something stupid like that.” He stands back upright, taking Brendon with him, and they’re a few minutes late to work.

Jon likes his job pretty well. He likes coffee and he likes the people he works with, and a lot of college students come into this shop since it’s so close to campus. He knows most of them, at least in passing, so the day usually goes pretty quickly between the busy shifts and chatting with people. 

It’s even better with Brendon working the same shift. Brendon is bubbly and bright and endlessly patient, even with the most trying customers. He has this way of placating anyone, and the managers _love_ him for it. 

All except Natalie, who’s had a problem with Jon since he started, for reasons he can’t even understand. Knowing that Jon got Brendon the job, Natalie’s dislike has extended to Brendon, too. She mutters something nasty about Jon being shift supervisor and setting a good example by being on time, but Jon’s mood is too good to let her get to him. 

He tries to tell her he needs to get Thursday off but she puts up a big fit about it, telling him he’s already on the schedule and Ivy can’t fill in because she’s got a final. Jon considers Ryan’s words very carefully, thinking about how much he doesn’t need this job, but he doesn’t feel like being a diva right now. 

“You know,” Brendon says conversationally, doing something with the filter on one of the machines, “how famous people always talk about not being very popular when they were in school and stuff. And everyone just rolls their eyes because, right, they’re gorgeous and talented, _of course_ they were popular. But still, when you’re in school and everyone’s treating you like shit, you just think, just wait, someday…”

Katlyn gives Brendon a half smile. “You going to be famous, Urie?” she asks, voice teasing, like she can’t imagine such a thing. 

Brendon sighs, “This is what I mean,” he says, to no one in particular. “They’re never going to believe me when I tell them what abuse I’ve suffered.” Katlyn nudges him hard with her hip and Jon hides his laughter behind his hand. 

“No, but seriously,” Brendon goes on, “like, people forget all sorts of shit once you’re famous, right?” 

Katlyn shrugs. “I don’t know,” she says. “Do I look famous to you? Seriously, what the hell?” 

“I’m just wondering,” Brendon says. Katlyn looks at Jon like she expects him to tell her what she’s supposed to say, but Jon’s still waiting to figure out where this is going himself. “I mean, celebrities, they’re always talking about how people come out of the woodwork—people who bullied them in school, long lost cousins and stuff. Like all the distance between them, all the bad relations never meant anything, now that you’re famous.” 

Suddenly it makes perfect sense to Jon. He glances at the clock. Still a few minutes before they open. Still okay as long as Natalie isn’t around, and he can hear her on the phone in the back. He loops an arm around Brendon’s hips and draws him close. “Hey,” he says. “That’s still a long way off.” 

Brendon nods. “Yeah. I’m okay, Jon. I am,” he says, and he _sounds_ it, but Jon is still wary. “I just—this is a lot to process and I’m trying to figure it all out, is all.” He gives Jon a quick peck on the lips and Katlyn very pointedly wipes the countertop, not looking their way. 

Jon keeps an eye on Brendon throughout the morning, but he does seem fine, smiling sunnily at every person he waits on. Maybe even happier than usual, because both Jennifer and Ike ask why Brendon’s in such a good mood and Jon just smiles and says, “Delusions of grandeur,” which makes Jennifer laugh and Ike wrinkle his nose in confusion. 

Pete keeps texting him all throughout the morning, apparently carrying on a conversation with Patrick, Spencer and Ryan via text and needing Jon’s input on various things from cover art to why the hell Brendon doesn’t have a fucking cell phone, what the fuck, Mormons aren’t _Amish_ for fuck’s sake. Jon keeps showing them to Brendon under the counter and Brendon taps back _do something about it, then_. 

Spencer strolls in on his way to his exam, looking smug and walking a little funny and it’s all too obvious how Ryan and Spencer have spent their morning. Jon wonders if they were doing it while texting Pete, and how upset Pete would be to know that it was going on and he didn’t have the slightest clue. 

“I felt it was my duty as a good boyfriend to warn you both that Pete has taken Ryan shopping for ‘costumes’ for our still, I tried to remind Ryan, totally hypothetical tour,” Spencer tells them, but the grin teasing the corners of his lips says he’s more indulgent than his words imply. 

“Also, either Pete hates us or he’s as crazy as half the world seems to think he is, because he _loved_ the rose vest,” Spencer concludes, and Jon feels a shudder of horror going through him as he wonders what he could have possibly done to piss Pete off that bad. 

“You two are dickheads,” Brendon says cheerfully. “I hope they find rose vests for us all.” 

Ryan texts Jon when he and Brendon are on break, grabbing lunch a Chipotle. There’s a picture attachment of Pete holding up a white button down covered in green and yellow roses and Jon texts back _im breaking up w/you_ while Brendon laughs hysterically. Ryan responds with a picture taken in the dressing room, naked from the waist up, blowing a kiss to the camera. 

“Seriously,” Jon says to Brendon, “what the hell happened to him?” 

“He got happy?” Brendon says, and shrugs. He nuzzles Jon’s shoulder and waits until Jon’s distracted by typing back to steal a bite of his burrito. 

Jon so doesn’t have a problem with happy Ryan. He’s just a little concerned, is all. 

Brendon has his afternoon shift at the record shop and Jon walks him there and hangs out for a while because everyone there is cool. Brendon’s manager, Kyle, is a lot cooler about letting him have Thursday off. He also doesn’t seem to find it strange that Brendon is hanging all over Jon, so Jon figures Kyle’s a pretty cool dude. 

“Just think,” Brendon says, as he’s sorting through the new inventory. “In six months, they’ll be getting our CD to put on the shelves.” Jon’s been around the music industry long enough to know that this might not go as smoothly as Brendon seems to think. But he can’t bring himself to contradict Brendon, not when he’s so happy. 

When Jon gets home he almost trips over the half-dozen T-mobile bags just inside the door. “Sorry,” Ryan calls from down the hall and appears in the doorway of his bedroom in nothing but a pair of Spencer’s boxers. 

“Pete got a little carried away. He bought us all Sidekicks.” He disappears back into the bedroom and Jon steps over the bags to follow him. “He’s such a dork. I can’t believe he tricks people into thinking he’s cool.” 

Spencer’s laid out over the bed on his stomach, naked and sweaty and Jon thinks he can totally get used to coming home to this. He shimmies out of his Starbucks outfit as quickly as he can, adding to the pile of laundry that they seriously need to get to work on in the corner. 

“Whatever,” Spencer drawls. “Don’t even try to pretend like he isn’t your new BFF.” 

“Last I heard you sort of hated him,” Jon says. He climbs on the bed, laying kisses over Spencer’s shoulder blades. 

“It’s come to my attention,” Ryan says, going into his closet, “that I was an asshole the other night.” 

“They really don’t even realise that they’re the same person, do they?” Spencer whispers fondly, and Jon chuckles against Spencer’s shoulder. 

“How was your final?” Jon asks. 

“Last final ever,” Spencer says, grinning and stretching. “I kicked _ass_. Thanks to Brendon being awesome at French. But I’m really relieved to know that my success in life no longer hinges on my ability to acquire a second language.” 

Jon nods absently, more interested in the way his fingers look moving over the pale, pale skin of Spencer’s back, down the line of his spine and the smooth curve of his ass. Spencer looks over his shoulder, brow arched, but he doesn’t protest and Jon licks three fingers into his mouth before returning them to Spencer’s ass. 

Spencer sighs and spreads his legs a little. “I’m going to be so fucking sore. I have no idea how I’m going to keep up with you three.” 

“You’re eighteen, Spence,” Jon says dryly. “You’ve hardly reached your sexual peak.” 

Spencer doesn’t answer, just rolls his hips back into Jon’s touch when Jon pushes in with two fingers. Spencer’s slick inside and already stretched. When Jon lifts his head to search for the lube he sees Ryan watching them from the doorway of the closet, eyes lazy. Spencer sees him too, giving an inviting smile that turns into a gasp when Jon crooks his fingers. 

The lube is lying on the bedspread but there aren’t any condoms out. He fumbles with the nightstand and frustrated, demands, “Where’s the fucking condoms?” 

“There aren’t any,” Ryan says. 

“Then…” Jon trails off, looking between them. 

“It’s okay, Jon,” Spencer says, and wriggles his ass, and it suddenly occurs to Jon just why Spencer was so wet inside. He hadn’t even thought about it last night, as turned on and worked up as he’d been, but now that he has a chance to think about it, he can’t figure out if it’s really sexy or really fucking stupid. 

Then Spencer sighs his name and rubs his hips against the comforter and Jon decides he doesn’t care. He slicks himself up hastily and pushes in, loves the way Spencer’s body opens for him, and the sounds Spencer makes, low and needy, that gather in the small of Jon’s back. 

He looks over Spencer, at Ryan watching them. Ryan’s hand drifts down his stomach and pushes inside the waistband of his boxers. “Take them off,” Jon says. “I want to see.” 

Ryan smirks but he doesn’t tease. He rolls the waistband down his hips and kicks out of them. “Come closer,” Jon says, and Ryan does, sitting on the edge of the bed, legs wide open, and takes hold of himself, stroking slowly. 

“Are you gonna fuck me?” Spencer growls. Jon leans over, laughing, and bites the back of Spence’s neck, hard. Spencer’s voice dies on a moan and Jon starts to move, looking to Ryan for guidance. 

It only takes Spencer a moment to realise that Jon is moving in time with Ryan’s strokes. He pushes back on Jon’s cock and says, “Seriously, motherfuckers, you can play this game with each other all you want, just—” and then Jon shoves in hard and Spencer shuts up and doesn’t protest again. 

By the time Brendon gets home at eight they’re all completely fucked out, lying in a limp pile on the sofa. “We ordered Thai,” Ryan pipes up. “Because we are rock stars, and we totally can, and also there’s nothing edible in the fridge.” 

Brendon chuckles and sets aside his things so he can join them. “I approve of this plan,” he says. 

Jon and Spencer make room for him in between and Brendon crawls in, laying his head on Jon’s chest. “So. Is it time for deep, meaningful talks now?” Brendon asks. 

“Does it have to be?” Ryan whines. 

Brendon takes his hand. “I just don’t want to lose you again.” 

Ryan shakes his head. “Pete said this thing last night. That I had to love my band. More than I loved the band. I thought he was just being stupid and enigmatic, or something, I don’t know. 

“Last night I was miserable. I mean, I finally got everything I’d been dreaming of, and all I could think of was how much I missed you all. How it didn’t matter if the band was going someplace if I couldn’t share it with you. How the band didn’t mean anything unless it was you guys in it with me. I should have been ecstatic last night, but all I could think about was how wrong everything was.” 

Jon brushes Ryan’s hair back from his face and smiles at him. “Good enough for me,” he says and Ryan kisses his palm. 

“It’s the same for us, you know,” Brendon says. “I love singing and playing, but I never would have been in a band if it wasn’t yours. No one else would get me except you three.” 

“Brendon,” Ryan says. “I need to tell you…” He looks uncertainly at Spencer who frowns and nods. 

“What?” Brendon asks, sitting upright. Jon feels something unpleasant roiling in his stomach and fumbles for Brendon’s hand. 

“It’s just. I was talking to our friend a few days ago. A friend from high school. I was going to tell you, but then I came home and you were…You and Jon were together and I…”

“Tell me _what_?” Brendon says, almost shouting and Jon squeezes his hand tighter. 

“Our friend Brent, he used to be our bass player, back in Vegas,” Ryan says. 

“You and Spence are from Ve—” Brendon stops abruptly and looks back and forth between them. “Wait. Brent? _Brent_?” 

“I didn’t want to not tell you,” Ryan says. “After everything else that’s happened. I was really stubborn back then—”

“ _Back then_?” Spencer whispers and Ryan shoots him a glare. 

“But that doesn’t really excuse it. I should have given you a chance.” 

Jon feels like he’s missing something important and Brendon is silent for a minute. “That’s what you wanted to tell me?” 

Ryan bites his lip and nods his head. Brendon surprises them all by laughing. “Jesus. I thought you were going to tell me you were dying or dumping me or some shit,” he says. “Fuck, Ryan.” 

Ryan looks as bewildered as Jon feels. “You aren’t…I thought you—you always said you wonder how things might have been different, if you’d had friends, in high school.” 

“Yeah,” Brendon agrees. “It fucking sucked. But if I’d met you guys then, Brent would be our bassist. And don’t get me wrong, he was a nice guy and all that, but I wouldn’t trade Jon for anything. Not even for the past couple years.” 

“That’s really sweet and all, but can someone explain what the fuck you guys are talking about?” Jon asks. 

“My friend I told you about,” Brendon says, “the one who invited me to audition for his band? That was Brent. That’s like, fate or something, don’t you think? That I managed to find you guys years later in Chicago?” 

“I seriously thought you were going to take this worse. Bought you cookies. I was going to make your favourite for dinner,” Ryan says against Brendon’s lips. 

Brendon shrugs and Jon can tell that it’s still a sensitive thing for Brendon to think about, having cheated on Ryan, even if Ryan is forgiving. “It all turned out okay though, right?” Brendon asks. 

Ryan smiles, one of those rare, completely open, happy smiles that makes him look younger and so beautiful. “Brendon. We’re so much better than okay.”

Brendon isn’t sure what wakes him—Spencer’s soft snores, Jon’s louder ones, or Ryan mumbling something in his sleep that sounds like an argument with their producer, Matt. One arm is trapped under Ryan’s side, long since fallen asleep. His other hand is held to Spencer’s chest. Ryan’s got one crazy long leg thrown over both Brendon and Spencer’s. Brendon feels safe. He doesn’t think about falling any more. There are so many hands to catch him. 

He lays in the dark, unsure if his eyes are open or not, unsure if he is awake or not. He gently eases his hand out from under Ryan’s side, shaking it back to life. Ryan moans and Brendon tucks his arm around Ryan’s shoulders instead, fingers running absently over the soft, invisible hairs at the back of Ryan’s neck. The bedside clock reads 7:08 in bright green but he already feels awake and ready to go, and another fifty minutes of trying to sleep will only make him feel restless. 

They’ve kicked off the covers in the night. Ryan’s on some energy conscious kick and refuses to let them turn on the a/c until it’s officially summer. Rain slants against the windowpane, and Brendon hopes that means it’s going to be cooler today. 

Brendon doesn’t really miss home. He likes their new apartment in Chicago with all the extra space for their instruments and the huge king bed everyone on the label chipped in and bought them after they signed, but the bed here isn’t much smaller and they tend to gravitate towards the centre, anyway. 

The thing is, they’re making music every day, together, and that’s all Brendon needs to be content. His bandmates and music. That’s as good as home. 

No one else is awake, so he decides to take advantage of the fact and indulge in a long shower. Usually at least one of his boys will crowd into the shower with him. They learned early on that three is seriously the most they should try to fit, lest heinous injury befall them. 

It isn’t that Brendon doesn’t like sharing the shower with them, or the sex that inevitably follows, but sometimes it’s just nice to stand under the hot spray alone, lazily jerking off while the water works away the tension in his back and shoulders. 

Spencer’s up when Brendon gets out, chopping veggies for omelettes. Brendon grabs another knife and helps him with dicing the onions, bumping his hip gently against Spencer’s in greeting. 

“Pete says he’s thinking about June 27th for the release,” Ryan says, coming in with his sidekick in hand, already tapping out a response. “Then going out with them and Cobra Starship and The Academy Is… in August.” 

Brendon puts down the knife and grabs Ryan around the waist, lifting him a little and twirling in a circle. Ryan laughs and holds on one armed, still trying to write Pete with the other. “On tour,” Brendon says, when he sets Ryan back on the ground. 

Ryan puts the sidekick on the table, devoting his full attention to Brendon. “Yeah,” he says breathlessly, looping his arms around Brendon’s neck and pressing their foreheads together. “On tour.” 

It’s been a headache, the making of their album. Their producer has certain ideas about their sound that don’t really mesh with what Ryan and Jon want and Brendon’s just infinitely grateful that most of the problems Ryan had with his vocals were worked out prior to going into the studio. 

There had still been plenty of fights over how Brendon sings the lyrics, where everyone else left the studio, tension thick in the air, unwilling to see it to the end. Which is probably for the best, since the end usually involved one of them fucking Ryan against any convenient flat surface available. 

They’ve gotten through all the stress knowing that no matter what goes on in the studio, at the end of the day they get to go home together and unwind. Jon somehow made a connection within their first few days in Maryland. Most nights they come home to weed and pizza and lazy nights in bed, fucking or making new music, or just talking until the sun is peaking around the curtains. 

After a lot of talks with Pete and Patrick, they’ve decided to go with Ryan’s older stuff for their first album. They have more of it ready, it has a nice, cohesive sound, and it isn’t too ambitious for a debut. 

Brendon thinks it’s best that way, anyway. He loves the music Jon and Ryan have made together, but he loves Ryan’s music, too, and he thinks it would be a shame if the world never got to hear it. They’ll just have a really strange follow up, is all. 

“I just want to remind everyone that my contract explicitly said no roses on my clothing. Ever,” Spencer says as he whisks the eggs with the milk and cheese. 

“You don’t appreciate my artistic vision, Spence,” Ryan moans, letting go of Brendon to go hang off Spencer. 

“It’s really tragic,” Spencer agrees blandly. 

Jon stumbles in, hair sticking up all over the place, still half asleep, scratching his bare stomach. “Tragic? Are we talking about the roses again?” Ryan flips him off on his way to the table and Jon catches him around the middle, kissing his neck until Ryan stops struggling against it. He lays his arms over Jon’s, holding them to him. 

Brendon loves _Fever_ , but as he watches his band over breakfast—stealing bites off each other’s places, sharing kisses between bites, sending texts back and forth instead of speaking and then laughing at themselves—he thinks it’s kinda funny that people are going to listen to it and think, wow, those guys must be miserable. 

“What?” Ryan asks suspiciously, and Brendon realises he’s been staring off into space, a goofy smile on his face. 

“Just…really happy,” Brendon says. It’s still a surprise every time he says it and means it. Hard to accept after years of never meaning it. Unbelievable that he’s known Ryan and Jon and Spencer fewer than six months, sang for Pete three months ago, and will have an album out in less than a month. 

Ryan sighs and ruffles his hair. “You’ll wear roses for me, right Brendon?” 

Brendon smiles and ducks his head. He remembers his father telling him that every day is a test. He remembers being alive without living. He thinks if this is the worst test he has to face, he can take one for the team. “Anything for your artistic vision, Ryan,” he answers. 


End file.
